Martyr
by Quiet2885
Summary: A young man sinking into despair after an accident. A fragile wife desperate to save him. A cold-hearted manipulator out to make a buck. A middle-aged woman seeking his redemption. Selfless or selfish, they all ended up lying to themselves. Modern AU. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, all. Here's a new phic that's been on my mind for awhile. It's difficult for me to explain where this is going, and I don't want to give anything anyway. I do have it planned out to the end, though.

This is more of a psychological drama than a romance, but it will feature significant amounts of both R/C and E/C. The characters are based on combinations of Leroux and ALW. I've also rated this as Mature—mostly because of sensitive themes and offensive language. Although this phic will not be as morbid as others that I've written, it may be intense and disturbing at times.

_I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_. All characters and themes belong to ALW and Gaston Leroux. _

A big thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing and helping to make all of this more real.

**Enjoy!**

She was in her favorite room of the entire building when her cell phone rang, her hands poised over the keys of a grand piano.

Skylights cast yellow squares on a light-blue carpet, and paintings of water lilies hung on the wall. Donned in a loose peach sundress and with her blonde hair tied back, Christine was warmly encompassed in the music and in her own little world. The local children's theatre was going to be performing _Cinderella _in two weeks, and she had been one of their accompanists for the past year.

Compared to her den, the circular practice room gave the music a more ethereal quality. Each note echoed, and the melody flowed without interruption. She loved that room.

Or at least she loved it until the phone call. After that call, she disliked certain things associated with that particular day. She'd had salmon for lunch; that was the last time she ever ate fish.

Still lost in the music sheets, she absentmindedly answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Christine. It's Phillip. I was wondering if you were on your way to the hospital."

When she heard the grave tone of her brother-in-law on the other end, two words passed through her mind. _It's Dad._

She didn't stop to think about how strange it was that Phillip was phoning to tell her the bad news. Although she'd always prepared for this call, her heart still constricted. Bile collected in her throat, and she clutched the phone. "What?" she managed to hoarsely ask. _It's Dad. _"Oh, God."

"The accident…. Are you heading over here now?"

An accident? That was a weird way to put it. Christine squeezed her eyes shut as the room tilted to the side. "Is he alive?" Maybe her father could survive a third heart attack within four years. It was possible, wasn't it? Lots of people survived multiple attacks….

There was a pause on the other end. "Yeah." She opened her eyes and nearly passed out from relief. "But he's injured pretty badly."

Something wasn't adding up. "Injured? Did he…hit his head when he fell…? I don't understand."

"Huh?" Another pause and then a whispered obscenity. "I'm talking about Raoul!"

"_What?_"

"Crap! So no one's called you yet? I thought the hospital…never mind! He was in an accident driving home from work."

"_What?_ Oh my God!" The room was starting to tilt again as horror for her husband and relief for her father settled into her mind. It was like ducking under a kitchen table and waiting for an earthquake--only to find out your house was on fire instead. "What…Oh my God!"

"They think it was a drunk driver; the guy's dead. Raoul's in surgery right now, and we're waiting for results. I thought you'd know by now; it was two hours ago. I'm sorry."

Her mouth hung open for five seconds as this all registered. At least with her dad she'd been expecting it. But _this_? Nothing could have prepared her for this. "But he…he's okay?" she stuttered. "He's okay, right?"

"He's alive. We're not sure about his injuries. But he was conscious coming in."

"Thank God," she whispered. "I'll be there...in….Where are you?"

"Jackson Memorial. Room six fifteen."

"All right. I'll be there in twenty minutes." After hanging up, she grabbed her purse from the side of the piano and ran out of the room, no longer finding it warm and protective. As she left the building, she could hear the voices of children singing in unison somewhere behind her.

It was a cozy job without too much pressure—or too much pay. But how many people could say they earned money doing what they loved? Plus, her husband fully supported her musical aspirations.

Her heart clenched again as she thought of Raoul, and she ran even faster to her car.

During the drive, she also ran a red light. Thankfully, no cops were nearby. With the state of mind she was in, it was fortunate that no pedestrians were killed.

Once at the hospital, Christine jumped onto a painfully slow elevator and slammed her hand against the button for the sixth floor. Throughout the entire journey, she refused to think of the possibility that Raoul was anything less than alive.

They had married two years ago at the age of twenty-two…dated since their senior year of high school…had been friends since the sixth grade. Raoul would have been a third generation legacy at Brown, but he'd turned it down and joined her at the state university.

There had not been many moments of her adult life without him. She couldn't lose him. It wasn't possible. She wouldn't accept it.

The first person she saw in the sterile corridor was Phillip. He was dressed in a black tank top and grey sweatpants, probably interrupted during his workout at the gym.

Like Raoul's mother, Phillip hadn't been too fond of her in the beginning, thinking they'd married too young. Unlike Raoul's mother, though, Phillip had come to accept her. And—at that moment—she needed a hug from him.

"Like I said, he was conscious when they first got him here," said Phillip, giving her a brief embrace. He smelled of a strong deodorant. "They're pretty sure he's going to make it."

"Thank God," she murmured, falling back against the plaster wall. "I just…I thought…." She closed her eyes and held back a sob. "I didn't know what to think."

"I know. Goddamned idiot driver slammed right into him! I'd kill the bastard if he weren't dead." He unclenched his fists and glanced at her, shaking his head. "Sorry. I'm still a wreck. That's my little brother."

"It's fine. I feel the same way," she murmured. Her eyes settled on the closed double door. "Can I go see him?"

"He's still recovering from surgery. Maybe forty more minutes if that last nurse knew anything."

"Oh." She slumped back against the wall, feeling the cold tiles beneath her dress. After another second, Christine took out her phone and called her father. His voice was comforting; less than an hour ago, she was sure he'd be the one in here.

"Oh, honey," he began after she told him the story. "Jesus. I'm so sorry. Do you want me to come up there? I can be there in fifteen minutes."

"No," she murmured. Her dad hated hospitals with good reason. "No. I'll come see you later tonight or tomorrow." She swallowed. "Make sure to eat a healthy dinner. There's a stir-fry in the freezer with lots of carrots…and…and broccoli…." Her eyes started to fill with tears.

"I will, Chris. I will. Calm down. Take a deep breath. I don't need someone calling me and telling me you've passed out. Now do you need anything? I swear I'll be up there in an instant."

"No. Don't come. It wouldn't…do anything. I'm just waiting. I'll call you later."

Phillip got off his phone as she got off hers. "Mom and Dad are boarding a flight home," he stated. "Mom was nearly in hysterics."

Raoul's parents had been vacationing in Honolulu, and Christine had been secretly enjoying their absence. At the moment, the news that they were returning didn't affect her either way. It seemed like the next logical step in this crazed path of events.

She and Phillip finally took seats in the waiting room with the other morose visitors, everyone silently staring at the walls. At some point, a nurse with bright red hair informed them that Raoul was out of the recovery unit. Christine barely heard another word she said, only dashing toward the indicated room. No one stopped her from entering.

Her eyes fell on his face, and she hesitated. What had she been expecting? He looked okay…the same as always…except paler and with a giant bruise on his forehead. She studied his chest to make sure he was breathing. _He'd better be breathing…._

After determining that his chest was rising and falling, she sat in the armchair by his bed, oblivious to Phillip and the doctors. She was half-aware of a hushed conversation in the hallway, but her mind was too distorted to make sense of it.

It took awhile for him to wake up. When he finally did, her eyes watered all over again. "Hi," she whispered with relief.

Raoul appeared disoriented for a moment and bent his neck forward. "What…." After a second, he seemed to remember, his eyes widening. With acceptance of the situation, he relaxed back onto the pillow. "Hey, there," he hoarsely replied, giving her a tired but genuine smile.

"How are you?"

"Well…this wasn't what I meant when I suggested we meet for dinner."

She attempted a laugh, but it came out as a tear-choked snort. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"Of course I am. How are you?"

"Okay." Christine bent forward to kiss him. "I love you." She wanted to crawl in bed beside him, close her eyes, and open them to discover that they were in their own bedroom and this was all a bad dream.

"I love you, too." He squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. I'll be out of here in no time. Just a few scratches."

"Yeah. You look fine. Cute as ever." She was finally able to smile back.

Christine glanced up to see a nurse standing there with a bag of clear fluid in hand. She moved out of the way so that the woman could make whatever adjustments were needed. Sensing a tension in the room, Christine finally turned away from Raoul and stared at Phillip. He looked as though someone had slapped him.

Something wasn't right….

Raoul turned to his brother as well. "Hey…." He blinked twice, still obviously groggy from the pain medication. "Aren't you…missing the football game?"

Phillip stood there for several more seconds before snapping out of his shock. "Heh." He could barely manage a laugh. "Who cares? It'll be a massacre. Who wants to watch the Dolphins win by forty points?" He leaned down for an awkward hug. "Brother, you had me scared there."

Raoul chuckled. "Mom must be going crazy. Did you tell her I was okay?"

Again, Christine noticed Phillip's face pale, and her stomach knotted. What was happening?

"Yeah," Phillip nearly whispered. "I told her you were awake."

"Great. Maybe she won't come running into the hospital in hysterics…like she did after you broke your arm that one time." Raoul turned back to her, unsteadily lifted her hand, and kissed the back of it. He must have noticed her darkening expression. "Everything is fine, honey."

Her gaze was torn between Phillip's frown and Raoul's smile. Suddenly, she realized that there _was_ something…different about Raoul. He usually had a lot of energy, always moving around or tapping his foot if he was forced to sit for too long. Yet, he'd been very still since she'd been in the room. But maybe it was the effect of the surgery and anesthetics or whatever else they used. Or maybe he was exhausted from the accident. Or maybe….

Phillip was watching her as she gazed toward the end of the bed. "Christine…." It was a tone of warning. "You should come into the hallway for a few moments. Get some water."

Raoul sharply glanced at his brother. He still became irritated by Phillip's occasional habit of treating her like an inept teenage girl. "What's wrong? She can stay here."

"Nothing," muttered Phillip, obviously too tired to argue. "Nothing is wrong."

She needed to know—no matter how terrible it might be. Not knowing was giving her an ulcer. "I think I do need some water," she murmured. "I'll be right back."

She kissed him once quickly on the forehead and once slowly on the lips. Then she left the room.

After Phillip finally explained, only two words could sum up how Christine felt that day and for many days afterwards.

Utterly helpless.


	2. Chapter 2

A big thanks to everyone joining me on this story. I promise I'll get back to "Amongst the Living" soon, but "Martyr" has currently abducted my muse and is holding it hostage.

I'm experimenting with a couple of new characterizations for this story. I hope you like them.

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her help and support.

**Enjoy!**

As her mother would say, the neighborhood was going to the dogs.

Pot-holes cluttered the faded roads, and half the streetlights were broken and rusted. One light had even tipped over, crushing someone's unused mailbox. Nearly every house had dandelions and other weeds growing on the front yard. Those that were no longer occupied had their windows boarded up as the paint peeled off under the Florida sun.

Several teenagers were standing on an overgrown lawn several houses down, smoking and blasting a stereo. The song explained in graphic detail what the singer wanted to do to a woman he met at a bar; every other word was vulgar.

Shaking her head, Meg pushed a long, black strand of hair out of her face. She started to enter her own home. At least her mother had made sure the exterior was freshly coated in white paint and had planted a vegetable garden out front. The tomatoes sort of looked like deflated red balloons but…it was better than nothing.

She turned her head to the side when the loud music suddenly stopped and the sound of twittering birds became audible again. Usually, the racket went on until well past midnight. The crowd of teens had begun to practically tiptoe back into their tiny brick home, glancing over their shoulders as they darted inside. Meg followed their gaze and noticed a police car slowly creeping around the nearest corner.

She started to smirk. _Serves them right._ To her discomfort, though, the car didn't stop near the rowdy kids. It continued down the road and then decelerated even more as it drove past her house.

Clutching the handle of the bulging duffel bag that contained her dance apparel, Meg whirled around and ducked into her home, locking the door behind her. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they were looking for someone else…some domestic dispute or gang activity or….

Meg wrinkled her nose at the smell of decaying chicken; her mom had forgotten to take out the garbage.

Her mom hardly ever forgot to do anything.

That meant her mom was preoccupied with something.

_Crap._

She fell into a chair at the kitchen table, wincing as she bent her left leg. Her knee still hadn't completely healed from an injury at a rehearsal two weeks ago. Her gaze drifted toward the window, and she wondered if the police car was still out there. She was too afraid to get up and look.

Minutes later, her mother finally entered holding a brown grocery bag in each arm. "Finally back," she said, closing the door with her hip. "I thought I'd never get through traffic."

Meg warily eyed her. "Hm."

"How was your day?"

She shrugged. "Okay. Just rehearsals and school."

"How's your leg?"

"A little better."

"Good. I still say that instructor doesn't go through enough of the proper warm-ups." Anne Giry dropped the bags on the counter and started putting items away. "Let's see. What's for dinner? Hmm. How does lentil soup and pita bread sound?"

Meg shrugged again. "Fine, I guess."

"Do we have any hummus left?"

"I dunno."

"Will you check?"

"Mph."

Her mother finally put her hands on her slender hips and turned to stare at her. "And what is wrong with you today? You sound like a little piglet with all your grunts."

She was about to give a gruff reply of 'nothing.' Meg paused, considering the possible seriousness of the situation. "There were cops driving by our house."

Anne paled for only a second and then dismissively waved her hand to the side. "So? They're probably watching the Carlson home. Those kids are always up to something."

"What if they're watching us?"

"Why would you even think that?"

"Because they've done it before. God, Mom. Stop pretending this doesn't ever happen."

Anne rolled her shoulders back and turned on the gas stove before heading for the sink. She ran her wrinkled hands beneath the warm water, keeping her eyes turned downward. "Well, I don't know why. I certainly don't know anything."

"Mm." Meg couldn't help but glare at her mother.

"I mean, I had many children and teens coming in and out of my home over the course of decades. I don't keep track of them after they leave. That would be a sure path to heartbreak. Those poor things…God knows…."

"Mm."

"They should really look somewhere else. I've told them I don't know a thing about anything…."

"You did last time," Meg finally murmured.

"What?"

"You knew that one winter."

Anne tossed a wooden spoon to the side and turned around, eyes widening in surprise. "I did not. What winter?"

Meg groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I was ten, and you told me you were leaving the house at one o'clock in the morning to go see Santa Claus about my presents! I stopped believing in Santa when I was _six_! Stop lying to me!"

Anne was silent as her gaze fell toward the yellowed kitchen tiles, wringing a towel between her fingers. She turned toward the pot on the stove, twisting the knob before the soup boiled over. "That was a long time ago. It was…complicated. You were much too young to understand, and I didn't want to bother you with my problems."

"It's always complicated!" Meg suddenly jumped up from the table. Her knee throbbed, but she ignored the pain. "Do you know where he is?"

"No!"

"Why won't you just tell the police where he is? I'm tired of this thing…this…this man always hanging over us. I've dealt with it my entire life, and it's _creepy_!"

"I told you I have no idea where he is! It's been years! He could be dead for all I know! Now sit down and stop screaming at me. I sat in traffic for two whole hours. There was this horrible accident on the highway; at least one person was dead. The cars were backed up for miles, and I'm exhausted. Not now!"

"You always come up with some excuse." She started to march to her room. "Argh! As soon as I'm eighteen, I'm gone."

Anne scoffed. "And how do you plan to support yourself?"

"I'll dance!" she spat.

"You'll end up waiting tables. Or worse!"

"It's better than waiting around for a psycho!" She slammed the door to her bedroom, still able to hear her mom's voice in the background.

"Stop being overdramatic. I don't know what's gotten into you. When I was your age, I woke up at four every morning and worked on a farm. Heaven knows I was much too exhausted to treat my parents like this and…."

Meg pulled a pillow over her ears to drown out the sound. A tear ran down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away. She wanted to be angry—not weepy. She wanted to be the bitter teenager---not the frightened child.

In her heart, Meg knew her mother was a good person—a better person than herself. Anne had fostered children, taught dance for underprivileged kids, saved animals from becoming road kill…. Underneath the firm exterior was Saint Anne Giry.

The problem was that her mother didn't know when to quit.

There had once been a little girl that they had taken in for a few months. What had her name been? Cindy? No—Mindy. She'd worn her brunette hair in pig tales. Her large brown eyes always had a distant look. Mindy hardly ever talked; sometimes she would rock back and forth, humming in a single tone.

One day, twelve-year-old Meg had caught Mindy pressing their orange tabby cat's head under the water of an inflatable backyard swimming pool. Of course, Meg had shoved the little girl into the mud and rescued the struggling animal. And then she'd told her mom.

Her mother had said, "Oh, Meg. I'm sure she was just trying to give the kitty a bath. Go make sure Mindy's okay. You didn't need to push her."

Only a month later, Mindy had nearly stabbed a neighbor boy with a pair of scissors. Finally, her mother had sent the disturbed child to a juvenile center—although still somewhat reluctantly. There had been a gleam of utter self-loathing in Anne Giry's grey-green eyes as Mindy was taken away, and that had been one of the last children they'd fostered. Meg hoped her mother had learned her lesson.

She hadn't, though. At least not when it came to…_him_.

After removing the pillow from her head and taking note of the blissful silence, Meg tightly hugged a light-brown teddy bear with black spectacles against her chest. The bear's name was Mr. Winston, and he had been a present from her now deceased grandmother.

Meg didn't remember much about Erik after nearly thirteen years. She'd only actually seen him once in her lifetime-- a dark, menacing figure with a voice that had sent a macabre vibration down her four-year-old spine. But she did remember his eyes—golden and wild.

And then later ….

_No one can prove anything, Meg. The poor man has never had a fair trial. _

_Well, maybe if you told someone where he was, he'd finally get a fair trial._

_Stop being a nuisance and go practice. _

Meg hugged the plush toy tighter, burying her tiny nose into the polyester fur.

Her mother often told her she was selfish.

Maybe she was.

* * *

She couldn't bear to tell him once she reentered the room. Christine merely resumed her seat at his bedside as Phillip's words circled through her mind. Thankfully, Raoul was sleeping, and she was spared the discussion for a little while. Curling her fingers, she brushed her knuckles against his right cheek. She ran her hand over the bruise on his head and through his soft blond hair, heart aching.

At least he was alive. That's all that really mattered.

But he had always enjoyed being active so much. All the Chagny men liked hiking, jogging, tennis, and backyard ballgames. This was going to be devastating as far as some of his hobbies were concerned.

_Maybe the doctors were wrong…._

Of course, he finally opened his eyes again and smiled at her. This time, she couldn't smile back.

"With your expression, I'd think you were the one in a head-on collision," he softly joked.

"Is that what it was?"

"Yeah. The guy went down the wrong exit ramp and into oncoming traffic. I tried to swerve out of his way, but…at those speeds…didn't quite make it."

"My God."

"The passenger side was completely crushed in." He grimaced. "If anyone had been with me…if you had been with me…."

"Shh," she hushed. "Let's not think about that." Reality was going to be hard enough without any fantasized worst-case scenarios.

"Yeah. You're right. We're good now." He attempted to turn slightly and then frowned as though he was having difficulty moving. Christine winced; if she or Phillip didn't tell him soon, Raoul was going to figure it out on his own.

She sighed, knowing they couldn't put it off any longer. It was better that Raoul hear this from his family than from some stranger in a white coat. Phillip walked into the room, but she ignored him. "I need to…tell you something important," she steadily began. "You need to know everything, love."

"What's wrong?"

"You're injured…badly…."

"In what way?"

Phillip made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat but didn't stop her from continuing.

"It's…It's your spine," she whispered.

"What?"

"It's…." Her lips parted, but she couldn't seem to go on.

Phillip took over. "The doctors are saying--they're saying some permanent damage was done to the lower part of your spine."

"What does that mean for me?" He looked between them and nearly growled in frustration. "Just tell me!"

Phillip continued, his forehead creasing with the strain of the conversation. "You're not…_they _say you might not be able to walk again. They say you might be paralyzed below the waist." He forced a warped smile. "But what the hell do they know, eh? They have to say shit like that or they get sued when something goes wrong."

Her heart fell as she watched Raoul's expression change.

"We're going to get through this." She squeezed his hand. "There are all kinds of new therapies. This hospital even has a special rehabilitation program for spinal injuries, doesn't it, Phillip?" Christine cast him a pleading look.

"Yeah. It does."

Raoul didn't say anything, only lowered his head back onto the pillow with a stunned, sickened gleam in his eyes.

"We'll get through it," she promised, feeling more helpless by the second. "I love you so much."

Raoul still didn't reply, and there was silence in the room until an ambulance wailed outside. At one point, Phillip excused himself to get a drink. Christine only sat there holding her husband's hand, unsure of what to say. Maybe if she knew anything about injuries, she could have been more specific about how to go forward. But, for the time being, she had no solutions—only questions to which she feared the answers.

After nearly thirty minutes of staring at nothing but the grey wall, Raoul finally turned to look up at her. "This…really…." He searched for the right word and then gave up.

She rested her forehead against both their hands. "But you're alive."

"I can't believe this is happening. I don't know…I don't know what to do. This is…I don't…."

"You need to rest," she gently interrupted. "That's important right now."

"But it doesn't _fix _anything…."

"But it can't hurt. It'll help you recover."

He grunted, always wanting to have solutions to problems. His attitude had been of benefit to her as she generally had a hard time making choices—everything from her college major to what to have for dinner. Raoul liked to take action; she wanted to ponder the details of every decision. They had always balanced each other out.

A minute later, she glanced at him and saw he'd gone to sleep, still under the effects of the pain killers. Or maybe slumber had seemed like the best escape from this nightmare. When he half-awoke, Raoul tried to turn on his side again, and then dazed terror entered his blue eyes.

"I can't move my legs," he stated in a panic. "I…can't. This is hell. Christine. This is hell. I can't move…I don't know what to do!"

"It's all right!" she exclaimed, lurching forward to try and calm him. "We're fine. You'll be fine. I promise. I promise you will. Relax, and we'll be fine."

"But I can't…."

"I know. But you'll be able to again. I promise! I promise, Raoul."

He stared at her with wide eyes before closing them again. She was unable to tell if he'd been soothed by her words or if he wasn't entirely conscious in the first place. Probably the latter.

A nurse in the hall had glimpsed the scene and poked her head into the room. "Let me know if he does that again," she said with a frown. "We may have to do more to sedate him so that he doesn't try to move and worsen the injury. We'll also want to keep his blood pressure down."

Christine only nodded.

Thankfully, Raoul was quiet and calm the second time he awoke. His jaw was clenched as he stared forward. Still, he held her hand.

"Are you heading home soon?" he asked, breaking into the silence after another nurse had left. "It's going to get dark."

"I don't want to leave you here," she murmured. "Maybe they'll let me stay."

"And sleep in that old chair? You need a good night's rest. There's going to be nurses coming in and out. You being exhausted…it's not going to fix this…."

"But--"

"One of us needs to be functional tomorrow. My parents are going to be here and…you know how that's going to go."

She reluctantly stood as visiting hours ended. Maybe he wanted some time to himself; it was hard to tell. "I wish you could come home with me," she whispered.

"Me, too, Chris. I'd do anything for that."

Christine hesitated. "I'm going to my dad's." The thought of sitting in their empty house by herself was too disturbing.

He nodded. "Yeah. Good idea. Be with your father."

"I'll be back first thing tomorrow. I promise."

"I'll wait for you." She leaned in, and they kissed goodnight. Christine gave him several more reassurances that all would be fine. She also warned him about what the nurse had said before leaving the hospital with a pain in her stomach. Despite the fact that the evening sky was clear, she felt as though she were driving through a drizzly fog. She couldn't keep from crying when she arrived at her father's house and told him everything. He only sat there and listened with sympathetic eyes, his graying beard partially hiding his expression.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he said, giving her a warm hug. "Damn. Of all the people for that to happen to…." He shook his head in disgust. "How severe is the injury?"

"We still don't know how much damage there's going to be." She took a deep, shaky breath. "But I have to believe we'll get through this fine. He won't quit until he does walk again. I know he won't."

"Yeah. That boy will be up and around in no time," he agreed. "He's a fighter."

"Just like you." She swallowed and stared at his face, searching for any signs of illness. It was hard to tell in the lighting. Was he paler than normal?

"Yeah." Her father shifted on the sofa and appeared uncomfortable, his calloused fingers digging into an aluminum can of diet soda. "Don't forget to take care of yourself, too, kiddo. I know tonight that's the last thing you want to hear. But I don't want to see you wear yourself out like you did when I got sick. Eat well. Get some sleep."

She didn't answer, instead standing to make herself a cup of caffeine-free tea with plenty of sugar. Her father had always jokingly asked if she'd like "some more tea with her sugar." Christine sat cross-legged in the living room and drank it while her dad half-watched the news. The setting brought her some peace. Her thoughts wandered back to Raoul; she hoped he was resting.

Near eleven, she stood, bid her father goodnight, and headed for her old bedroom. Going in there always made her feel like a little girl again—with the smiling dolls on the shelves and figurines of dancers and musicians in various poses. A violinist sat nearby a twirling ballerina, a pianist was playing next to a cancan girl, and a flutist with his eyes closed was standing beside a grinning tap dancer. Pictures of her at different stages in her life hung on the wall and decked her dresser. Sometimes the juvenile setting brought her comfort; tonight it only made her feel more powerless.

_No. _She was not helpless! Her father would be fine; she'd see to it that he adhered to a healthy diet with plenty of exercise. And Raoul would recover and walk. She would have him jogging around their neighborhood again in no time. She wouldn't lose. The two people who defined her life would not suffer or leave her. Failure wasn't an option.

Unused to sleeping alone now, Christine rested on her stomach and stretched her arm across the empty space beside her, pretending that her husband was there and all was well.

By the time she arrived at the hospital early the next morning, Raoul's parents were already in his room.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, all! I nearly have the next vignette done, but I decided to get out another chapter of _Martyr_ first. Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing. Even though this story may not be the most pleasant read, I hope it keeps you entertained and interested.

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her help. She gets first dibs on Erik.

**Enjoy!!!**

"How many nights?"

"Five."

"Can I see your credit card?"

"Your tawdry orange sign said I could pay with cash." Three hundred dollar bills were fanned out on the counter.

The middle-aged balding receptionist bit his cheek and then cleared his throat. He positioned his fingers, which were covered with potato chip crumbs, over the keys of a mid-nineties computer. "Can I get a name, Sir?"

"Ignacio Hernandez." The visitor slowly pulled out a laminated identification card with his spidery thumb and index finger. The man in the photograph had a thick beard, and it was difficult to discern his features.

The receptionist blinked, likely taking notice of his guest's pale, bony hands. Only a dirty lamp lit the room, which meant it was impossible to tell that the visitor's entire face was also covered in a flesh-colored mask. Only a pair of yellow eyes shone beneath a black hat. With an aggravated sigh, the receptionist glanced at the card, swiped the cash off the counter, and turned back to his computer. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Hernandez."

"I will." The guest started to leave and then paused. "Oh. And I do not want housekeeping services. I am…particular when it comes to others touching my possessions."

The receptionist snorted. "We don't have _housekeeping_ services until after people leave, dude."

"Of course not." The guest left the lobby and exited into the warm, dry evening air, feeling a certain amount of contentment in being back in his home country. The little inn, despite beginning to fall apart, even possessed a certain amount of charm. It probably had cockroaches, too. Ah well. He would not be there long.

He always felt the need to keep moving forward, never having remained in one place for more than a year or two in his entire life.

_And it was that foul trait that kept him from actually getting anywhere. _

After quickly glancing at the dusty landscape that was dotted with abandoned metal warehouses, he returned to an inconspicuous black car parked at the farthest corner of the lot. He clicked open the trunk to see a lean bundle draped in a white sheet and a brown leather suitcase. Pulling only the suitcase out, he headed for his second-floor room at the back of the building.

Once he had unlocked the door and entered, he placed the suitcase on the floor and unlatched the metal clasps. He yanked out a few dress shirts, flannel shirts, jeans, and trousers to hang in the cramped, dusty closet. Next, he laid out a blue toothbrush and tube of toothpaste beside the bathroom sink. After ruffling the stained bedspread and skewing the pillows, he tossed a wallet onto the table. He stood back and admired his work before adding a few more signs of life.

The alarm clock said it was just past seven. He stayed in the room for an hour or so afterwards, planning his travels and not wanting to arouse suspicions by repeatedly exiting and entering. Finally, he stood and stretched his wiry muscles, feeling the need to keep moving. A little red cockroach scuttled around his shoe; he knocked a stale cracker crumb off the table so the creature could have a proper dinner.

He returned to the car and opened the trunk again, the warm wind creeping through the holes in his mask and the dust making his eyes itch. Ignoring the faint stench, he lifted out the object wrapped in the sheet and crept toward one of the warehouses. The corpse would be close enough for the authorities to find—but not near enough for them to find _too_ quickly, thereby making it difficult for them to form any type of timeline.

After easily breaking through a rusted lock and entering the dark triangular structure, he lowered the body onto the floor and yanked off the sheet. Rubbing a bony knuckle beneath his chin, he studied his work for possible errors. He'd already removed the eyeballs; that would be the main giveaway. The head wound was completely dry.

"You have been an excellent travelling companion," he softly informed the corpse. "I grow lonely from time to time, and you were good to listen to my troubles."

He'd recently _borrowed_ the body from some gentlemen in another town who were quite eager to get it off their hands. Therefore, he was not sure of the exact time of death, and the eventual autopsy might slightly knock his plans off course. Of course, if the crime were ever accurately traced, it would go back to those gentlemen. Ideally, complete confusion would ensue as to the identification of the man--confusion that would eventually reach Mexico in the form of gossip and rumors.

"Goodnight," he told the corpse with a tip of his rimmed black hat before departing.

And, with that, Ignacio _'El Fantasma'_ Hernandez was possibly dead.

It was the name he had often used while swimming through some of the chaos in Mexico over the last year. Thousands had died. He'd survived because he never sided with a particular cartel, simply hopping from job to job, not caring who he was working for so long as he was being properly compensated. In an environment with little order and constant betrayal, the setting worked out quite well for him. Compared to the loud and messy assault rifles and hand grenades, his methods were much quieter--and appreciated in certain circumstances. Very few individuals actually saw him, and so no one could identify him.

Still, in the end, he'd needed to leave for a variety of reasons. For one thing, he was growing tired of the physical requirements and beginning to yearn for more intellectual work. For another, some of the top men in the cartels had become rather angry at him. One was intent on gouging _Ignacio's _infamous golden eyes right out of his sockets and sending them to his enemies as a warning.

It was simply…time to move on. And that was perfectly fine as far as he was concerned.

He needed to keep moving…to keep searching for something or nothing…. He really did not understand why those men who had routine nine- to-five jobs did not simply hang themselves with their ridiculous neckties.

The dolts did have financial stability, though. A rush of anger swelled up inside him as he remembered what he had left behind. Over one hundred thousand dollars was sitting in an account south of the border, and some vile thief was probably going to get his disgusting hands on it. He'd been forced to leave the country too quickly to take action, and now part of his wealth was lost.

He wondered if there was a way to get back to it. Or if it would be simpler to spend the energy on a new lucrative 'project.'

So much to do and consider…so little time….

For now, though, he would take a brief vacation. He required time to reflect and plan his next step in life. The air became more humid as he drove through East Texas and toward Louisiana, and he could feel his mask begin to stick to his face. Desert and flatlands gave way to woodlands, making him feel less exposed.

When he finally felt secure, he paused for fuel and a rest. The gasoline pump had a machine that accepted cash, and so he was spared facing an attendant. The fewer people he saw, the better. His supply of stolen credit cards and cash cards were only for the most difficult situations.

After scouting the mid-sized town, he decided to visit a low class piano bar, choosing a table in a dark rear corner. It was moderately crowded with people who looked like they had nowhere else to be; no one took notice of him in the dim room. Sitting back in the chair with his ankles crossed and running a pepper shaker between his fingers, he listened to a fast ragtime piece. Music, music.

No matter what instrument was playing or from what country of origin, music always briefly brought back a memory of Anne Giry. Years ago, she had once sat him in front of a piano and attempted to give him lessons. He'd quickly developed the ability to repeat any melody that he heard and even embellish upon it. Or he could alter it to a different style. For example, he could take a piece by Bach and mold it into something Scott Joplin would compose. Anne had labeled him a prodigy, clapping her hands together with a wide-eyed expression of delight. While with her, he had played often.

Although most of Anne's ideas for him were beyond laughable—_doctor?! teacher?!—_he sometimes regretted not pursuing the music. But his time with her had been somewhat short, and no one else ever had instruments. Music had passed out of his life long ago as many things had.

Ah well. He had other priorities now.

Listening to the piano in the bar, he could hear every mistake that the musician made, from hitting the wrong key to holding a note too long. It made him twitch. No one else seemed to notice. Or they were too intoxicated to care.

He was distracted as a young waitress with black hair curled beneath her chin approached him. He estimated that eighty percent of the time he was ignored in dining and drink establishments, either unnoticed or feared. It appeared that tonight would fall under the twenty percent.

"Something to drink?" She kept her distance, eyes warily watching him.

"No."

"Anything to eat?" One black high heeled shoe was placed behind the other in preparation to back way.

"No." He paused, annoyed at her predictable demeanor. "Your feigned French accent is rather atrocious, you know?"

"They make us talk this way," she whispered without the accent.

"And I am sure you do _everything _they tell you to do."

The girl pursed her lips, eyes briefly flashing in anger. "Well, some of us have to make a living." The fear returned, and she swallowed, perhaps regretting her words. Whirling around, she ran away from him.

He chuckled beneath the mask. There were two ways to make the fear go away. (Well…likely more than two but strangling them seemed excessive….) He could make them angry, or he could make them laugh. As he was in a foul mood over his lost funds, he'd chosen the former that night. But, on occasion, he could cause a woman to giggle.

Although he wasn't fond of people, he liked to make them laugh sometimes. He even had a bag of tricks. Well, there were several weapons in there, as well. But also cards and string…a couple of little wooden tops--odd items that he could use to entertain people in certain situations. On one occasion, he had stacked the tops on top of each other and spun them simultaneously. It created a little tornado with green, red, and yellow stripes.

Years ago—when he had been more impulsive and less wise—that simple trick had probably saved him from being taken out in the alley and shot in the back of the head.

"Let the butt-ugly kid go," the gruff Chicago boss had said. "I'll probably end up killing him someday. But he's more entertaining than most of the crap that walks in here."

Of course, he hadn't inched that close to death in over a decade. Still, he kept his bag…his little bag of life and death for emergencies. And for laughter.

Women had the nicest laughs, a much more pleasing timbre than that of a male.

Thoughts of females brought him back to Anne again.

Without reason, he felt the need to visit her every so often.

Oh, she could be extremely irritating. Sometimes she would complain about how he should have a legitimate career for so long that he wished to gag her. At the same time, he found her fascinating. How could one be so completely…selfless? Didn't she realize that people would use her up until there was nothing left? Was she really so naïve? Listening to her lecture him about right and wrong was like listening to someone speak in an exotic foreign tongue. It annoyed him yet made him a bit giddy.

She would also touch him on the arm with two fingers or pat him on the shoulder; no one else ever did that. Anne Giry provided a delightful sensory overload that he could not really experience in any other way. And perhaps that was why he could not avoid her forever.

Yes, it was time to visit Anne again. He always sent her a letter with nothing but a few lines of famous prose or poetry to let her know he was visiting. To change things a bit, he decided to choose a children's nursery rhyme, thinking she would find humor at seeing her name in one of the lines.

_Ladybug ladybug fly away home,_

_Your house in on fire and your children are gone,_

_All except one and that's little _Anne_,_

_For she crept under the frying pan._

Thoughts of seeing her somewhat calmed him. He would visit her, and she would touch his arm, and then he could move onto his next endeavor.

A magazine cover on another table caught his eye, advertising the latest computer model. Actually, from what he'd read of it, the science of hacking was appealing to him more and more. It was less physically draining, and he could do it from any location. Plus, he missed the intellectual activity. Once, he had installed a security system for a very wealthy, very shady man. The project had taken a few months, but the delight in piecing it all together…figuring out all the glitches…playing with all the switches and buttons and wires….

It was time to go; he had to keep moving. So many possibilities. So little time.

And yet…too much time….

* * *

As she approached the hospital room, Christine immediately recognized the high-pitched voice of Raoul's mother, Theresa. There was some crying, followed by Raoul's reassurances that he was "okay." Then, for several minutes, there was inaudible conversation. Christine stood outside and hesitated, not wanting to intrude and wondering if she would learn more by eavesdropping.

"I just can't believe this," suddenly moaned Theresa. "Are you in pain? Should I get another nurse? Look at your face. You like you're in pain."

"She's just making it worse." Christine jumped as Phillip spoke from behind her. He was holding a Styrofoam cup and wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. His eyes had darkened circles around them, and his cropped dark-blond hair was slightly ruffled. "Infantilizing him. She always does this."

"I guess she's just worried," Christine murmured, not really knowing why she was defending Raoul's mother.

"Raoul is her favorite. This is going to hit her hard, and she's going to want to take control. She'll walk all over you, if you're not careful."

"Mm." Christine glanced down, not really surprised and not really sure how to respond.

Raoul's father was speaking now, his voice even and low. Christine never knew what to make out of Henry Chagny. He was a retired corporate lawyer, helping to organize some of the biggest mergers and acquisitions in the country. He was also so stoic that he made her uncomfortable. Raoul said he'd never been an affectionate man, but he was the kind of father who would always help with a homework problem or go on a trip to the museum.

"Yeah," she heard Raoul reply. "Whatever gets me out of here fast." He must have glimpsed her in the hall. "Christine? What are you doing out there?"

"Nothing," she replied, quickly stepping into the room. She went to his bedside and took his hand. They kissed. Both his parents stiffly nodded at her, and she nodded back. His mother's blue eyes still had tears, and it was one of the few times Christine had seen her without a perfectly-styled short perm. "How are you feeling?"

"Meh." He shrugged and gave her a pained smile.

Theresa dabbed her eyes and stepped back. "Well, we'll just take it one day at a time," she concluded. "That's all we can do."

"We'll learn all our options," his father added. "I don't care what the people here tell you. No one sign _anything _until we know all our options."

Christine was suddenly glad that Henry was there; she probably would have ended up signing the wrong thing. They silently and awkwardly stood around the bed. Raoul rubbed a hand over his face.

"Are you tired?" Theresa asked. "If you need to sleep, we can leave for a bit."

"Mom, I'm fine," he replied. "Let's try to stay calm."

"We do need to stay calm," Henry said. "But we also need to make plans."

"Yes, plans," agreed Theresa. "If what the doctors are telling us is accurate…." She tapered off and placed a hand on Raoul's shoulder. Her red manicured nails created a strange contrast with the blue hospital gown. Christine swallowed hard and watched as Raoul ground his upper teeth into his bottom lip.

"I don't think we need to make any quick decisions now," said Raoul.

"About what?" Christine asked.

"Treatments and rehabilitation," said Henry. He paused and then added, "Short-term living arrangements."

"Oh," she replied, still not quite grasping the tension. "Well, whatever is best for Raoul," she said, looking toward her husband. "That's what's important."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Theresa with such energy that Christine nearly jumped. Rubbing his temples, Raoul lowered his head back onto the pillow.

Christine was at a loss, unable to figure out who was siding with whom over what. She started to ask more questions, but Raoul suddenly twisted in the bed. "Ouch," he muttered, his face scrunching up and his fists curling into balls. "It feels like something's…cramping…burning."

"Where?" asked Christine bending down. She reached out a hand, hesitated on where to place it, and then rested it on his shoulder.

"Just…." He gestured at himself with both hands. "Everywhere."

"Oh my God. I'll get a nurse," his mother said with new tears in her eyes, sandals clicking as she rushed out of the room.

"Hang in there," said Henry, his expression distant. "They'll give you more painkillers."

Christine stayed as his side as he squeezed his eyes shut. She moved when a nurse entered the room, backing up several steps with her hands slightly outstretched.

"We'll give him time to rest," said Theresa, heading for the door with Henry. "He shouldn't have this many people in the room at one time."

Christine nodded and followed as the ache returned to her stomach. Phillip was still lingering in the hallway looking haggard. She went to stand beside him, feeling as though her brother-in-law might be her closest ally. In the room, Raoul soon fell back into a comfortable sleep.

"Christine?"

She tensed and turned toward Theresa. "Yes?"

"Would you like to come downstairs and have a cup of coffee with me? Maybe we could both use an extra boost of energy. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night what with…."

Theresa's expression was blank, but the question made Christine nervous. Still, what could she say but, "Okay. That sounds…good."

They silently rode the elevator together and followed the signs to the giant cafeteria. Theresa purchased coffee with two creamers. Christine requested three creamers and three packets of sugar. They found a circular table toward the back and sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs. Theresa took a sip of her coffee and made a face. "This is terrible."

Christine tasted hers and didn't find it much different than any other coffee. Only the condition of her husband made the flavor a little bitterer.

"Well, it'll do," muttered Theresa, taking another sip. They silently drank as others spoke in low voices around them, likely discussing their own difficult situations. Christine waited for her mother-in-law to continue, knowing this was not going to be a pleasant discussion between friends. "Well," she finally began with a sigh. "What a situation. I nearly passed out when I received the call. Right in the middle of an aquarium. Thank God he's alive. I don't know what I would have…." She closed her eyes.

"I know," Christine softly replied. "I couldn't believe it. I nearly still can't."

"His face lights up when you walk into that room."

"I'm glad…." She forced herself not to cry. "I'm glad I make him happy."

Theresa sighed and folded her hands together. "We're all going to have to make some hard decisions soon."

"I know. Whatever is best for him. I want him to be happy."

Theresa slightly frowned. "That's exactly what he said concerning you. He wants you to be happy. But someone here is going to have to be the adult and make the decisions. As you're not lying in bed with the prospect of never walking again, I'm asking you to do it."

Christine held out her open palms in bewilderment. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"You're right. You weren't there for the conversation, were you?" She rubbed the bridge of her nose as though irritated by this fact. "The next months are going to be especially difficult once he leaves the hospital. There are a few options. You could hire someone, like a nurse, to help you. Or…you both could live with us for some time. There's plenty of room. And plenty of help."

_So this was it. _Christine twisted her hands together, nearly knocking over her coffee in the process. She hadn't even thought this far ahead yet. "What does he want?" she asked.

"Like I said, he says he wants what you want. And I'm asking you to make a decision in his best interest."

"Well, of course I'll make it in his best interest," she nearly snapped. "I just want him to get better."

"We all do. But it is certainly not going to happen overnight. We'll be lucky if…." She tapered off.

Christine's hands fell into her lap. "I don't know," she murmured. "I haven't thought about it…. I…maybe for a little while, it'd be best if there was family close by when he first leaves. He'd like that better than some strange nurse, I think" Theresa's eyes lit up, and Christine had to keep from glaring at her. "But not forever," she quickly continued, dreading that idea. "As soon as we understand how bad the injury is going to be and how much rehabilitation he'll need, Raoul and I will be on our own again. We're going to be an independent couple, and I'm going to take on the responsibilities."

Theresa slowly nodded. "Of course I don't expect you to live with us forever. You'll keep your own home, and Henry and I will help with the mortgage."

Christine started to protest but stopped. What was she going to do? Pay all the bills with her measly accompanist position? She could give piano lessons as she had two years ago, but that still wouldn't bring in enough. The only thing that mattered now was Raoul's recovery.

"This is going to be a long and difficult path," Theresa continued. "You're the one person who really brings a smile to his face. And I hope…you're willing to face the circumstances."

"I am. I'll face anything for him." Christine stared her mother-in-law straight in the eye.

Mrs. Chagny looked as though she was about to say something. Her lips closed, though, and she took another sip of coffee. She scrunched up her face and put the cup down. "I guess we should go up and see if he's doing okay. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Christine evenly replied, standing. "I'm ready."

After they silently stepped onto the elevator, Christine held the door open so another woman could board with them. "Thank you," she distractedly murmured. The woman was older, with her light brown and grey hair folded into a neat bun. In one hand, she was carrying a shopping bag full of stuffed animals and games. The nametag on her worn red sweater made Christine guess she was a volunteer, probably spending time with sick children. The woman and the name were also vaguely familiar, though.

Christine was nearly to Raoul's room when she finally remembered. Anne Giry. She'd looked so much older now and…. _God, that had been years ago._

When Christine was about six-years-old, she'd desperately wanted to take ballet. They hadn't had much money, but her father had finally discovered _Madame Giry's Little Butterflies_, an inexpensive dance program for poorer children. Christine had only been in the class for about a year. She was clumsy and had hit her growth spurt at an early age, making her embarrassingly taller than the other girls. Although everyone else had caught up to her in height, she'd never become much of a dancer. Only Raoul could get her to agree to an occasional spin around the room.

Still, Mrs. Giry had always put her time and heart into every class, strict but enthusiastic. If Christine remembered right, Anne had quit teaching the program to have a baby girl. Another instructor, a lackluster one, had taken over the class. Christine had quit soon afterwards.

Her memories vanished the second she entered Raoul's room and saw him awake. She nearly ran over to him for a hug, ignoring Theresa on the other side of the bed. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better." His warms arms wrapped around her, and she buried her face into his shoulder. They stayed liked that for over a minute. "You changed shampoos," he said, obviously catching a whiff of her hair.

"Oh. Yeah. I just used what was at my dad's house."

"Oh. They're both nice."

"Thanks."

He sighed and then whispered, "It won't be like this forever."

"I know," she replied, embracing him even more tightly. "It's only going to get better from here."


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, everyone. I hope you're enjoying the holiday weekend. This chapter probably isn't quite what you're waiting for, but I promise that some fateful meetings are coming soon. I just want to get the characters established before things get…complicated.

Thank you for all your encouragement. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for continuing on this journey with me.

**Enjoy!!!**

It became a routine.

Every morning and evening, she'd visit Raoul at the hospital. She would tell him about her day…ask him how he was feeling…if he needed anything…anything at all. He was making very slow improvement; the pain had become less severe, which meant he wasn't under the constant sleep-inducing effects of painkillers. There'd been little progress as far as his mobility was concerned, but Christine knew that could take months or years. The remnants of a stunned expression were still engraved into his face, as though he still couldn't believe what had happened to him.

Theresa, Henry, and the medical staff were making plans concerning how to begin the long recovery process. Christine sat at all the meetings and attempted to get in a few words. Usually, though, she'd end up leaning back into the cushioned chair, nodding her head up and down, and letting the doctors make the decisions. They knew best, didn't they?

With Raoul's prodding, she returned to her accompanist position. It wasn't for the money; Christine simply needed some endeavor on which to focus. Nothing good was coming out of hours spent staring out the kitchen window, worrying over Raoul and her father. And, suddenly, music became a sort of savior.

One day, she went to her father's house, plopped in front of an electric piano, snapped a pair of headphones over her ears, and drifted into an endless sea of notes. The piano was situated in what was supposed to be a formal dining room; there was even a small golden chandelier hanging over her head. As she and her father weren't exactly formal people, usually eating in front of the television, the space had evolved into her music room.

Her father enjoyed hearing her play; he'd even dabbled on the piano and guitar in his younger days. Of course, that didn't mean he wanted to hear _Moonlight Sonata _or _Lacrimosa_ as his favorite football team was scoring a game-winning touchdown. The headphones allowed for compromise. Christine also liked how no one had to hear her when she was starting a new piece—and making a million mistakes.

In the days following Raoul's accident, she would sometimes play for hours, either repeating the same song until she had it perfected or jumping from one piece to the next. She played soft modern ballads, classics, Broadway pieces, songs from operas, ragtime, and even tried to make up a few of her own. The last never came out that well; she'd never been much of a composer.

Still, the music of the geniuses from the past and present kept her occupied.

One late afternoon, her dad walked up behind her and placed a hand on her right shoulder. Christine hit a wrong key and nearly slid off the bench in surprise. Seeing who it was, she slipped the earphones off and stared up at him, little black notes still dotting her vision.

"Woah." Charles Daae put his palms up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

She brushed her hair out of her face; the room seemed too warm. "Sorry. I guess I was…involved."

"I haven't seen you play like this in awhile."

"Yeah. Outside of practicing for the children's theatre, I don't have as much time." While Christine hadn't consciously missed playing only for herself, she had forgotten that feeling of being swept away and mindless.

"Well, I didn't mean to bother you. It's just…you skipped lunch. I didn't think you'd wanna miss dinner, too."

"Oh my God. What time is it?"

"About five-thirty."

She jumped up with a groan. "How could it be that late? Ugh! It feels like it should still be morning. I'll fix you dinner, and then I'm running over to the hospital."

"You don't have to worry about my dinner," he protested. "I'm a grown man."

"If I leave, you'll end up ordering a sausage pizza. I'll make you a salad and some chicken breast." She walked toward the kitchen, her eyes briefly falling on some photographs atop a shelf built into the walls. There was her mother, who had died of a cerebral hemorrhage when Christine was barely two. In the picture, she was wearing an oversized dark blue sweater, and a puffy blonde perm was sweeping over her shoulders. Christine thought she looked more like an eighties sitcom character than a mother; she had no memory of the real person.

Nearby was a picture of Christine and Raoul on their wedding day--complete with the white strapless dress right out of a fairy tale, handsome black tuxedo, and dozens of pink and white flowers arranged behind them. That one made Christine's heart jump.

She pulled out several plastic sacks of vegetables from the fridge and opened the one with two cucumbers. Taking a peeler, she began to remove the dark-green skin. "Dad?"

"Yeah?" He'd take a seat at the kitchen table and was flipping through an auto magazine.

"Sometimes I don't always know what to say to Raoul. I tell him he'll walk again soon. But, with some of things we've learned, what if…." It was difficult to say aloud.

"He doesn't," her father finished.

"Is it wrong to tell him that he will? I don't know what to do…." After the cucumber was peeled and chopped, she dug the knife into a tomato, watching as the transparent juice squished out onto the paper towel.

He was silent, head tilted to the side. "I don't know. Nothing ever wrong with hope; sometimes that's all anyone has. But maybe it'd be better if you said you'd be there for him…encouraged him…." She nodded in agreement. "Any idea on the extent of the injury yet?"

"Yeah." The doctor's grim words returned to his mind. "His legs…aren't good." A lump formed in her throat as she scattered a mixture of lettuce and spinach leaves onto a plate.

"I see. Well, I've known some amputees that are doing just fine. They go about their lives like anyone else."

"Right." She arranged the carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes over the bed of green. Now it looked like a vegetable flower garden; Christine smiled at it and then felt silly. Picking the plate up, she placed it in front of her father.

"What? Now I don't get dressing?"

"I'm getting there." She pulled out a bottle of low-fat Ranch and a fork. After tossing the items at him in a semi-playful manner, she took out a glass tray of honey-glazed chicken breasts from the previous dinner and slipped them into the oven. With a sigh, she sat across from him and placed her chin in her hands. "The doctors keeping saying there's a good chance he won't walk unless there's new breakthroughs. Other functions…we're not sure yet. And the pain. There could be chronic pain."

He slowly nodded in understanding. "Yeah. Lots of complications with that type of injury."

"I've told you we're going to move into his parents' house for awhile."

"Probably for the best," he replied. "I know you're not fond of Theresa; the woman is pretty shrill. But I'd hate to think of you handling this by yourself. Hell, I'd be over there every day trying to help you myself."

"I know. It just feels like everything is spinning out of control. I can't do anything. I feel so useless."

"You can cook—kind of," he gently joked. She half-glared. Her father had a hard time being serious about anything. While she was crying over her first breakup in high school, he had walked into her room wearing a squeaky red clown nose.

Okay. So it'd made her giggle. It was still completely inappropriate.

"I'm kidding, honey," he continued. "You know that. I feel helpless, too, I guess. This is a rough situation, especially for two young people. But we can't do anything except see how it plays out. Raoul has both you and his family. You have a lot of help, if you need it."

She nodded. "You're right. We're better off than a lot of people in these circumstances. I guess I'll--" Her vibrating phone interrupted her, and she pulled it out of her pocket. "Hello?"

"Christine?" Phillip was on the other end.

"Yes?" Her voice shook as she remembered the last time he'd called her.

"I've got some news. It's looking like Raoul might be able to come home within a week."

"_Really?_"

"Yeah. He can get all the care and rest he needs at the house; we'll hire some nurses until we're sure he's okay without them. And bring him back to the hospital for therapy and tests. Anyway, we don't know all the details yet, but I thought you'd want to know."

"That's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I know he hates it there."

"Yeah. We thought it was for the best."

"I'll be down there in about thirty minutes. Thanks, Phillip."

"No problem. See you later."

She hung up. "He's coming home! He's coming—_Dad_!" Her father had gotten up and was sneaking a miniature chocolate bar from a kitchen drawer.

He folded the candy into his fist. "Just a little dessert."

"But it's bad for you."

"I read a study that said chocolate is good for the heart." He slowly unwrapped it and slid the brown rectangle into his mouth. And then he changed the subject. "So you have good news?"

She sighed in frustration. There was a part of her that wanted to lock her husband and her father up in a tiny room so that they couldn't hurt themselves anymore.

And so they couldn't leave her.

* * *

She knew the routine.

He'd sent her a second unsigned letter with the specifics.

_Juanita's. Seven p.m._ Anne requested a table in their normally reserved section, explaining that she became nervous in the midst of larger crowds. The hostess nodded, spoke to a manager, and then led her into the quieter, carpeted room.

"Can I have the table at the back?" she asked. "By the mirror?"

"Sure, ma'am." The young woman placed a menu beside the ketchup bottle and left Anne by herself.

After quickly glancing around, she took a seat with her back to the mirror and slid her purse beneath the wooden chair. She folded her hands atop the table and took a deep breath. When a waiter arrived, Anne ordered iced tea and _Juanita's _Famous Enchilada Trio. It was mainly for appearances; her stomach was too knotted to actually eat anything.

Seven fifteen ticked by; seven thirty loomed. Cheers exploded from the bar, probably either brought on by a touchdown or a home run.

A shiver started at the base of her neck and traveled to the bottom of her spine. She folded her arms around herself. They needed to turn the air conditioning down.

The pink piñata hanging to her right seemed to be staring at her; she couldn't tell whether it was a horse or a unicorn. Was it missing an ear, or was that a horn? Or maybe it was a little hat….

"Anne. Anne. Anne."

She closed her eyes as her heart rate increased. The tenor voice was impossible to forget. "Erik," she murmured in reply.

He popped out of nowhere and slid in across from her, his head tilted to the side. She guessed he had come in through a back or side door. Then again, Erik could walk through a front door unnoticed. His back was now toward the entrance, but the mirror behind her allowed him to see the entire room. Erik always wanted to be one step ahead of everyone else.

The yellow eyes studied her. "You seem older, Anne. Not that I am one to speak of appearances."

"Well, I am getting old," she replied. With the dark hat, she could barely see his face—or rather the mask that looked like a face. He appeared the same, though. Thin as ever. Clad in black. Almost sinewy.

"Not so old in years," he chided. "You only wear yourself down."

"How are you, Erik?" she softly asked, directing the conversation away from herself.

"Well," he replied. "I am well. And you? How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

The young waiter entered with a tray of food and set the steaming plate in front of her. He blinked twice at Erik as he handed her the iced tea, nearly spilling the drink. "Um…can I get you anything, Sir?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Can I get you anything else, Ma'am?" The poor boy looked like he wanted to escape.

"No. I'm fine for the evening, thank you. I'll pay up front. Have a good night."

He gratefully nodded and left. Anne stared down at the melted cheese and green sauce before poking it with her fork. "Do you want any?" she asked Erik.

"No."

She slowly cut off a piece of corn tortilla drenched in the chili and took a bite. Erik merely watched her. Anne set the fork down as the spices burned her tongue and quickly took a sip of tea. "I'm not all that hungry, actually."

"Yes. I only suggested you order so we do not seem odd. I did not expect you to eat the food. It is ghastly."

"Oh." She pushed the plate away from herself.

"How is Meg?"

Anne swallowed, never liking it when her daughter was brought into the conversation. Meg and Erik existed in two separate worlds, and she never wanted those worlds to collide. "She's fine. Growing up." _Still listening to her mother's lies…._

"Ah. Well, inform her she'll be an empress someday with no worries." He paused and held an index finger up. "Speaking of which…." He pulled something from his pocket, and she nearly ducked out of the way. Erik laughed. "You are so skittish, Anne." In his extended hand were several hundred dollar bills. "Here is a beginning to her empire."

She eyed it and leaned away. "Erik, I don't want your money."

His eyes narrowed. "And why not?"

"I don't need it. Meg and I are fine as it is."

He laughed again, but it was less pleasant. "But you must have a new shirt. That one is about to unravel like a ball of yarn. Take my gift to you. You have done so much for Erik over the years."

"I'm happy to help you; you don't need to repay me."

He crossed his arms, still holding the money. "Why do you always refuse my gifts?"

"You know why," she stated in resignation. "The money…I don't…I can't accept where it came from. I don't even want to know where it came from."

"Ha! You will meet with me in the ghettos, but you will not accept my gifts. Dear Anne, you never change. Who cares where it came from? It is merely ugly designs printed on paper that society decided has value. And it is yours now."

"I don't want it." She wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and sat up straight, gathering some courage. "Have you been doing anything good for yourself?"

"I am always _good_."

"If you had only taken a couple of courses like I asked, you would be--"

He leaned forward, and she nearly lurched back. "I tried, Anne. You remembered I tried."

"Erik," she said in a hushed voice. "You didn't try! You burned that man's house to the ground!"

"Professor Buquet wished for me to show my work," Erik calmly explained. "I could do those silly calculations in my head, and he demanded that I show my work. He mocked me; he criticized and scorned me; he failed me. So I showed him my _work_. There is no greater display of chemistry at work than pyrotechnics."

"You could have killed him."

"Thank you for that information, Anne. I would be lost if you did not notify me of these matters."

The sarcasm grated at her, and his eyes were making her shiver. Why did she ever agree to meet with this man…this wanted criminal who did nothing but mock her?

_Because you remember the boy…the lonely boy drinking orange juice at your kitchen table with nothing in the world…._

_You let them take him away! _

_No!_

She ignored the sting in her heart. Erik continued to speak. "Still, it was a rather reckless thing to do. I am much more careful now." He waved his hand to the side as though shooing away a fly. "Anyhow, why must we bring up the ridiculous past? Let us speak of the future…of more pleasant topics. Like fortune." He thrust the money at her. "Now take it. And there will be more to come as soon as I choose my next path."

"No."

With his eyes still upon her, he reached beneath the table and discreetly dropped the money on the floor. A nearby air conditioner jiggled the bills and threatened to blow them away.

"Erik!" she exclaimed in dismay. Anne reached down and grappled for the money. After she had managed to grab all of the hundreds, she attempted to hand them back to him.

"No, no," he said with a wag of his index finger. "You keep them or you drop them. I will not take them back. Perhaps the waiters will find that sum of money to be of use."

Anne stared at the bills as her mind argued with itself. _Meg. Meg could use a few new clothes and shoes. And if there was anything left over, the charities could have it. Yes, the charities would make the money pure again. _

Defeated, she tucked the bills into the pocket of her worn jeans. Although she couldn't see Erik's expression, victory sparkled in his eyes. She ignored it. "So…have you returned to the piano at all?"

"No. It is difficult to carry the instrument around the country." He said it with good humor. Now that she'd taken the money, Erik had calmed. "Yes…you were good to introduce me to that. There is nothing quite like music. It is truly invigorating."

"I'd love to hear you play again."

"Perhaps someday that can be arranged. We can barter, no? Do you still make chicken parmigiana?"

"Occasionally."

"I have never found one quite like it."

She weakly smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"And you should," he replied, bony hands folded together. "Yes, a song for a meal. But there is never enough time, is there? I can never stay anywhere for too long, you see? It is an unrelenting itch to keep traveling forward."

"It must be nice to have that freedom," she softly replied. She wasn't about to mention that he probably felt that way because he'd never had a place to call home. Erik strongly disliked being analyzed, referring to all psychiatrists as 'society's tapeworms.' "But it'd be nice if you could settle down, too, you know?"

He shrugged. "There is nothing worth settling down for. People who settle down have become bored with life and are waiting to die." She started to argue with him, but he continued. "You will not give me away, will you, Anne? Not that you could. Not that I trust you enough; I really cannot trust anyone that much. Otherwise I would not be alive, you understand? But I wish to hear you say that you will not. It makes me feel…calmed."

"I won't give you away. I just…I wish…."

"Do not expend your wishes on me. I do not need them. Spend them on…little Meg. Give her my best."

"All right, Erik."

"You are so good." She couldn't tell if he was mocking her again. "I will accumulate wealth and help you retire, how is that?"

"Only if you accumulate it by honest means…."

He laughed again. "Aha. Honest." Erik glanced at the mirror. "I had best go before our room is crowded by a hoard of people and their screaming infants." He hopped up. "Goodnight, Anne. I may find you again before I leave."

She stood as well, her head only coming up to his shoulders. Taking a shaking hand, she rested it on his narrow arm. "Erik. For the love of God, please take care of yourself. _Think_ about what you're doing. For my sake."

He stared at her hand. It may have been a trick of the light, but she swore he even tilted his cheek toward it. A few surreal seconds passed by, and they remained in that position. "Goodnight," he repeated and then vanished.

Alone in the room now, Anne was oblivious to the noisy family that entered. As she walked toward the front of the restaurant to pay the bill, sidestepping an overturned drink on the floor, her mind wandered to the past again.

The other children had always run around playing, fighting, and screaming at the top of their lungs. But Erik would just…sit in the kitchen, watching her as she cleaned or made dinner. Sometimes he would share tidbits of knowledge with her. She'd wanted to feed him because he was nearly emaciated—not that it ever really helped.

And even as the years passed…after he'd left for some time…when she discovered some of his _activities_…she hadn't been able to inform on him.

There'd been times when Erik had stressed her so much that she'd hated him.

But then she usually hated herself even more.

And….

And the next time he came, she'd bring him the chicken parmigiana.

* * *

Christine remembered when her father had last left the hospital. He nearly dove out of the wheelchair and onto the asphalt, climbing into the passenger seat of her car and ordering her to 'get me the hell out of here.'

It wasn't like that this time.

Still too weak to even sit in a wheelchair, Raoul was rolled on a half-upright stretcher and into a white private ambulance. Theresa walked on one side, and Christine stayed on the other. Christine watched Raoul's expression, searching for any signs of discomfort, as Theresa barked orders to the medical staff. Somewhere Phillip and Henry walked behind them, only prepared to step in if the situation became too heated.

Christine had stayed back as a room was prepared for her husband at the enormous Chagny house. From a visual perspective, she adored the home. It was pure white and three stories tall, with pillars in the front and a yard filled with weeping willows, rose gardens, and a cherub-decorated fountain. The bedrooms were spacious and contained fireplaces and balconies. Raoul's father had an office that looked like a library, filled with shelves of books, three computers, and even a secretary's desk.

From a personal perspective, she'd never felt completely welcome there, and so the home put an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She would miss the cozier house that she and Raoul shared.

_But it wasn't forever…. _That was what Christine had to tell herself over these next months.

When the process was over---when the furniture was moved and Raoul was resting as comfortably as possible in a custom mechanical bed—his bedroom resembled a hospital room. Various painkillers, muscle relaxants, and other drugs were lined up in a nearby cabinet. There were stacks of papers and pamphlets that gave instructions on what to do in certain situations and emergencies. In the beginning, there would be round-the-clock nursing care. Pneumonia and infections remained serious concerns.

After everyone else, including Theresa, had finally left, Christine started to sit down beside him.

"Hey," Raoul softly began, squinting at her. "Would you mind closing the blinds?"

"Oh! Sure!" Theresa had opened them, explaining that Raoul should have some sunlight.

"Thanks." He relaxed back onto the pillow. The exhaustion from the day was evident on his features.

After shutting the blinds, she climbed atop the covers beside him and gently wrapped an arm around his waist. "I'm glad we can do this again. Some of those nurses were always ready to bite my head off."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Phillip referred to one of them as Nurse Ratched."

She softly giggled. "How are you feeling?"

"Just…kind of wiped out."

"But no pain?" She tilted her head so she could stare at his face.

"Not too much. I think they've got me on everything under the sun."

"As long as it helps."

He stroked his hand along her arm. "Your birthday is coming up, huh?"

"Oh. I hadn't even thought of it." It was the truth.

"I'd made reservations months ago…."

"Oh, Raoul. Don't even think about that right now. I can cancel them in a second."

"We should still do something."

She shook her head. "I'm just happy you're here. I don't want anything. I promise." Christine carefully leaned over for a kiss, afraid that she might hurt him. They laid there together for awhile, the air conditioner humming quietly above them.

Theresa entered at one point, glanced at them, glared at the blinds, and then repeatedly asked Raoul if he needed anything.

He finally said, "Mom, thanks, but I just want to rest with my wife for awhile. I want some peace. All right?"

Theresa finally left.

"_Is_ there anything you need?" Christine asked awhile later, putting her head up.

"Well…nah. I'm fine."

"Tell me!"

"This is going to sound kind of weird, but…there's a piano in the room next to us. It's kind of like an upstairs den, remember?"

"Yeah. I've been in there."

He gave her a close-lipped smile. "Could you play me something?"

Her eyes widened. "Sure! I'd be happy to. That's really…all you want?"

"Yeah. I've missed hearing you."

She kissed him on the cheek and hopped up, slightly confused but thankful that she could do _something_ for him. And she could do it fairly well. Christine began with _Ave Maria_, thinking the melody would relax him.

It was only in time that she fully understood why Raoul often requested it of her.

Music was the only drug that wasn't in the cabinet.

And so she played for him.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to all who continue to read! Although this still may not quite be what you're waiting for, I think we're taking some steps in that direction :)

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her help!

**Enjoy!!!**

During the first days that the string of nurses visited the Chagny home, Christine stepped out of the bedroom just as she had done at the hospital. Especially when the crankier nurses entered, she'd always felt as though she were in their way and impeding Raoul's recovery.

Standing beneath the skylight in the hallway with her arms crossed, though, she realized that circumstances had changed. Raoul was now partly under her care. And if she were ever going to be of any use (and if they were ever going to go out from under Theresa's upturned nose), Christine needed to learn all of the necessary medical procedures.

One of the nurses that regularly came was Amanda, a girl several years older than Christine with short brown hair and a pixie face. She was polite and professional, and Christine admired her ability to brush off all Theresa's complaints.

"How are you feeling today?" Amanda asked, calmly staring down at Raoul with a medical chart in hand.

He shrugged. "All right."

"Any pain spasms?"

"Not quite as many."

"But some?"

"Yeah," he replied. "A few."

Instead of leaving, Christine stood beside the bed and observed. Amanda seemed indifferent to her presence, pulling back the blankets and likely preparing to check the catheter. Raoul, however, was not so comfortable.

He stared at her stomach, fingers curling into the cotton bedspread. "Christine, maybe you should go for a bit. This is boring."

"What? But I should be here," she gently argued. "I need to learn." Amanda briefly glanced between them and then went back to her work.

"Maybe someday. But not right now." He didn't look her in the eye. "Some other day."

"Why not now? I need to learn everything she does."

"No you don't. We can always have a nurse or something."

"But that's silly if I can handle it!" she exclaimed.

He gritted his teeth. "I don't want to discuss this now."

"Why not?"

"Because it's humiliating!" he finally snapped. Even Amanda flinched.

"But I--"

"Not right now." He said it more softly. "Please."

Her mouth momentarily hung open. "Oh. I…. Fine. I'll get out. I'm…sorry." With her eyes on the floor, Christine briskly walked toward the door.

Amanda briefly glanced at her as she walked by. "I can go over a few things with you later." She said it as though she were used to this type of incident.

"Thank you," Christine murmured. After making it into the hallway, she took a deep breath and wiped away several stray tears. She understood, and it hurt. And there was nothing she could do to fix it.

There had never been any gender confusion in their relationship. Raoul was the man, and she was the woman. And not in an oppressive way. Raoul was naturally the decision-maker--the strong one who managed the finances and made the major life choices. She was more passive. When there was something she did want, like the grand piano in their den, Raoul always gave it to her. It was just that most of the time, Christine didn't even know what she desired.

Or maybe she just _wanted_ everyone else to be happy.

But now he was weak and fragile. And he hated it.

_It should have been the other way around. It would have been better if he had to take care of me. He'd be better at taking care of me. _

She pushed the morbid thought from her mind. Before Amanda left that afternoon, she gave Christine a few pamphlets and a brief explanation of certain processes. At the end, the young nurse rested a hand on Christine's shoulder and said, "It'll get better. Especially for young, active men, this type of situation is hard. Sometimes the elderly are easier because they're more accepting."

"What can I do?" Christine asked.

"Give him time. Try to compromise if he's difficult."

"All right." For the rest of the afternoon, she gave him his space, staying in one of the dens and flipping through the Chagny's library of magazines. Henry was kind enough to ask her if she'd like anything to eat. Raoul's mother mostly ignored her. When she wasn't outside tending to her flowers or watching a soap opera, Theresa was checking on Raoul.

Christine finally went to visit him that evening, nervousness churning in her stomach.

His head shot up when she came inside. "I am so sorry, Christine!" he exclaimed. There was such relief, sadness, and desperation in his eyes that she nearly cried. "I was a jerk, and it had nothing to do with you. You're wonderful. It was completely me." He lowered his voice. "And I think my mother is starting to drive me crazy…."

She rushed to his bedside and sat next to him, taking his hand into hers. "No. Maybe I'm pushing things too fast. If you feel more comfortable with the nurses, you should have that right now."

"Maybe we can take it slowly," he said. "See how it goes…if it gets better to where no one has to do certain things…."

_Compromise. _

"Right. Just tell me what _you _want. This is about you."

"It's about both of us," he softly replied. They were silent for a moment, and then he said, "I was wearing my seatbelt that day."

"Thank God. It's probably what kept you alive."

Another silence. "I thought everything was supposed to be okay if you wore your seatbelt."

"You're alive. You'll be fine." It was a weak reply, but she didn't know what else to say. Raoul said nothing else, and at some point, Christine got up to play the piano.

* * *

"Christine?"

Swept away from her music, Christine glanced up at the soft sound of her name. She was back in her former favorite practice room. Even though she still loved how the space made her music echo, the room had also become tainted with the memory of that day.

Cinderella was standing at the entrance, wearing jeans and a spaghetti strap shirt.

"Hi, Marissa," Christine greeted.

The twelve-year-old entered, twirling a string of dark brown hair on her index finger. "Hi! Am I bothering you?"

"No. Come on in. I was just finishing up. How was your rehearsal? Are you ready for the performance?"

Over the months, she'd gotten to know some of the children from the theatre groups. It was fun to see all the young talent that popped up. One little boy had even gone on to take a few roles in made-for-television movies.

"I'm nervous," Marissa admitted.

"But you're always good! I saw you in _Sleeping Beauty_ as the Blue Fairy."

"Yeah, but this time I have to sing all by myself. My voice gets squeaky sometimes."

"I'm sure you'll be fine if you relax."

"What if I squeak? I should have been one of the mice." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Then I'd get to work with Will. He's so cute!"

Christine laughed and glanced at her watch; she still had a few minutes. "Here. Let's work on your song a little bit. We'll stop you from squeaking."

Marissa's face lit up. "Thanks! I always do better with the piano."

After a few warm-ups, Christine started playing the song—the duet between Cinderella and the Prince--and Marissa sang along with the melody. She did well at the beginning but had some trouble with the higher notes toward the end. Occasionally, she drifted slightly off-key, and Christine finally joined in on the vocals to give her a hand. At one point, Marissa closed her mouth and merely listened. "You, too," urged Christine, disliking the feeling of being the only one singing. Marissa sang again, and Christine began to only mouth the words.

By the end of the session, Marissa had better control of her voice. "You sing nice," she said, slightly out of breath. "Why don't you ever sing for other people?"

Christine shrugged.

"Why?" she persisted.

"I like the piano. It's less…I'm shy." That was the simplest way of putting it to a tween. Truthfully, Christine felt vulnerable and exposed whenever she sang, as though everyone were judging her. The piano had always seemed safer; sometimes no one even had to see her.

"Oh. I'm kind of shy, too. Sometimes I pretend that no one is watching me…even if they are."

Christine chuckled and glanced down at her watch again. Her eyes widened, and she hopped up from the bench. "Yikes! I have to go. I'm sorry."

"Me, too," said Marissa. "I'm at my dad's this weekend."

"Is he going to come watch you?" asked Christine as they walked into the hall and outside together.

Marissa headed for an awaiting blue van, a small frown forming on her face. "I dunno. See ya."

Christine ran to her car. She'd enjoyed the time with Marissa; anything to do with music was always a bit of an escape. Unfortunately, she was now on the brink of being late to the hospital. The plan was to meet there with Raoul, his family, and the medical staff to discuss the slow process of rehabilitation. They would also take MRIs to learn more about the extent of the permanent damage, and Christine prayed for good news.

With seven minutes to go, she was forced to fight her way through a crowded lot and park a fair distance from the building. Clutching her purse against her shoulder, she ran through the glass entrance and climbed on the elevator. The office was on the same floor but at a different side.

_One minute late now._ She could picture Theresa's aggravated expression when she walked inside. Christine finally found the right room. With a deep breath, she slowly opened the door, mentally preparing an apology…and possibly an excuse.

But the office was empty. She checked her watch again. She was only two minutes late; they couldn't have had the meeting in two minutes. With a frustrated yelp, she left the office and headed toward the nearest nurse's station, wondering if she'd misheard the room number. "I'm looking for the Chagny family," she began between breaths. "Maybe I'm in the wrong…."

"Oh. They cancelled today. The patient was in some pain, and they thought it best not to move him too much. I think they rescheduled for the day after tomorrow."

"_What?_ Why didn't anyone ever call me?" The nurse leaned back slightly. "I'm sorry," Christine muttered. "It's not your fault. Thanks." As she headed for the elevator, she yanked out her cell phone and furiously dialed the Chagny residence. Thankfully, Phillip was at his parents' house and picked up. "Why didn't anyone tell me it'd been cancelled?" she asked, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. "Is Raoul okay?"

"What? You mean Mom didn't…. Dammit." He sighed. "Look. I'm sorry. She said she would. I thought I heard her on the phone with you."

"Well, she didn't. Is Raoul okay?"

"Yeah. He's better now. Mom just didn't think he should go out today."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Well, someone should have called me."

"I know. I'll be sure next time. K?"

"Fine." She hung up on him. Her mind was cluttered with insults directed at Theresa, and she didn't even watch where she was going. At some point, Christine walked out an exit and into a parking lot. Looking up, she blinked in the later afternoon sunlight. Where had she parked?

_Oh no…. Please don't let this be the stupid wrong parking lot. _The shrubbery didn't look familiar.

_Okay. This is the south side. And I was on the east…no…the west…or was it the south? _A bearded homeless guy holding a cardboard sign was staring at her from the nearby street. Hunching her shoulders, Christine nervously turned away from him and began the search for her car. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Anger was clouding her thoughts as she walked around the maze of vehicles. She clicked the button on her keys to see if her car would beep, but there was no sound.

Eyes ahead of her, Christine walked past an enormous SUV. Suddenly, the sharp sound of squealing tires surrounded her. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth to scream, bracing herself for an impact. Nothing hit her, though. Slowly, she opened her eyes, heart pounding as she turned to see an older white car stopped about a foot away from her.

The window on the driver's side rolled down, and a woman spoke. "Good Lord, child! Are you trying to get hit or robbed this evening?"

Christine only stood there with her mouth hanging open. The woman poked her head out. It was Anne Giry, her old dance teacher.

"I'm…lost." Her throat was suddenly dry.

"Well, where are you trying to go?"

"My car."

"What lot did you park in?"

Christine blinked. "I don't know."

"Do you want a ride while we try to find it? I saw you walking out here over fifteen minutes ago. Some of the nurses on the nightshift have gotten mugged in this area. And that diamond ring isn't exactly improving your odds."

"Um…."

"If you're not comfortable with that, let me at least call you a security escort. Should only take about fifteen minutes."

Christine hesitated as the childhood warnings about getting into cars with strangers circled in her mind. But Mrs. Giry wasn't really a stranger. And she was an older woman who seemed entirely wholesome and charitable. Feeling the sore bottoms of her feet and noticing that the homeless guy was still watching them, Christine walked over and climbed into the car. It smelled of warm leather and French fries. "Thanks."

"My pleasure. Now. Let's see if we can figure this out." Anne looked around the lot. "Does this side look familiar to you?"

"Not…really."

"Okay. Then we'll try another one." She accelerated slightly and headed out of the lot.

"I don't know if you remember me," Christine softly began. "I'm Christine. I was in one of your dance classes when I was little."

Anne glanced at her. "Oh. Really? I'm sure if I thought about it…. I…there were so many children…."

"It's fine." Christine smiled. "I wasn't very good."

"No one had to be good. It was about giving young girls the opportunity to shine. Do you still dance?"

"No. I play the piano. I'm at the children's theatre as an accompanist."

"Oh! How nice! I'm over there sometimes helping with the programs." Anne turned into another lot, slowed down, and looked her over. "So what brings you here?"

Christine tensed. "My husband was in a car accident. He was injured pretty badly…."

"Christine Chagny!" Anne exclaimed with wide eyes. "And Raoul Chagny. Ah. I read about that in the papers! Your poor husband…."

"We're moving along…." Christine suddenly recognized some of the palm trees. "Yes! It was this lot!"

"Which side?"

"Um…the left!"

Anne headed that way. "There's progress being made in the area of paralysis. Maybe stem cell research will hold some of the keys."

"I hope so," she replied. "He's so…unhappy stuck in bed. I don't know what to--There it is! The green car."

"Great!" Anne parked beside it and turned to her, gnawing on her bottom lip. "Now you'll probably think I'm a little crazy, but…I have some books that might help you. My daughter and I are both dancers, and we've seen our shares of injuries. I know it's not the same, but these books have some special exercise for all types of ailments. There are special methods to relax and stretch and heal. It's more toward the spiritual side, but I've had success."

"I don't know. His injury is pretty severe."

"There's a whole section in one book on paralyzing injuries."

Christine hesitated, desperate for hope but not daring to get her hopes up. "All right. I guess it couldn't hurt. Thanks."

"I'll get them to you," she said. "We can meet here or somewhere else. I'll give you my number." She took a pen and scrap of paper from her purse.

"How is your daughter?" asked Christine. "I don't think I ever met her."

"Meg is…good. She's your typical teenager and hates me most of the time."

Christine laughed as she took the phone number. "I don't see how anyone could hate you." Anne softly chuckled, but there was a distant look in her eyes, as though she'd suddenly remembered something. Christine put her fingers on the door handle and turned to leave. "Well, I'd better get back to my husband. Thank you for everything. I'm glad I ran into you tonight."

"Take care, dear. And please call me so I can give you those books. I swear, they've worked miracles."

"I will. If nothing else, I'll be at the hospital the day after tomorrow. We can meet then."

"Wonderful."

After Christine climbed into her car and locked the door, she watched Anne drive off. Despite her mood, a small smile graced her lips. At least something good had come out of that evening.

* * *

"Where's your mother?"

"She's not here right now." Meg pulled the black-haired teenage boy into her room by one of his freckled arms.

Normally, she would have been too embarrassed of her house and neighborhood to invite anyone over. Aaron was different, though. For one thing, his family also had some money troubles. For another, he'd driven her home many times and never commented on her living situation.

They'd been dating for over six months. She was comfortable with him because, like her, he had his own interests. He played baseball for their high school, and it'd earned him a scholarship at the University of Florida. She, of course, had her ballet and modern dance. Unlike some couples, they didn't have to be together twenty-four hours every day.

Of course, she did like it very much when they _were_ together. Aaron looked around the poster-covered walls over her bedroom. Most of the pictures were of dancers, with a few animals and movie stars scattered into the mix. "Hey." He pointed at her bed with a grin. "It's Mr. Winston!"

"Be nice to him," she warned. "Last time, you nearly knocked him off the bed."

"Mr. Winston and I are cool with each other," he replied, patting the stuffed bear on the head.

She giggled and wrapped both arms around his neck, leaning in for a kiss.

Aaron gently tugged back. "But what about your mom?"

"She won't be home for at least two hours."

He scratched the back of his cap-covered head. "She was pretty pissed last time."

"She has a new project that'll keep her occupied."

"What sort of project?"

Meg wondered why everyone was so interested in her mother. "Remember that car crash? Where one guy died and that really rich guy was paralyzed?"

Aaron shrugged. "Not really. There's a new accident every week."

"Well, anyway, Mom and the guy's wife met, and Mom is trying to push that New Age healing stuff on her."

"Does it work?" he asked.

"I don't know. I always took an aspirin and got over it."

"Yeah. But a sprained ankle is kind of different than being paralyzed, right?"

Meg rolled her eyes. "I _know _that. Ugh. Let's forget about Mom." She pulled him in for another kiss.

Aaron was nearly eighteen and therefore had very little willpower. They were soon reclining on her cushy bed. Her hands removed his hat and slid through his silky hair as they shared several heated kisses. Meg found comfort in the smell of his aftershave, soft brown eyes, and hands on her body. He seemed so wonderfully…normal. Baseball seemed so wonderfully normal.

Just as his hand began to creep up her shirt, there were two knocks at the door. Meg's head shot up, and Aaron leaped up from the bed. "Crap!" he exclaimed. "Is that your mother?"

"She wouldn't knock."

"Oh. Yeah."

Straightening her shirt and pushing her hair out of her face, Meg walked to the door and squinted out the peephole. She frowned. An unfamiliar dark-skinned man with a moustache was standing there, his expression uncertain. In the evening dimness, it was hard to tell whether he was Hispanic or Middle Eastern.

"Can I help you?" she loudly asked without unlocking or opening the door.

He blinked. "Uh. Yes, Miss. Is Anne Giry there?"

"Not right now."

"Oh." A pause. "Are you her daughter?"

"Why? Who are you?" She felt somewhat comforted when Aaron walked up behind her.

"I only need to briefly speak with Anne."

"About what?"

"It's concerning her time fostering children."

Meg glared. "Look. We don't know anything, all right? Just because my mom took in some kids doesn't mean she knows everything else that happened in their lives. Leave us alone."

The man swallowed and shook his head. "I'll speak with her later," he softly replied. Meg continued to watch him until he'd disappeared from their front doorstep.

"What the heck was that about?" asked Aaron.

"Nothing." Meg sighed and rubbed her arms as though cold. After a second, she looked up at him. "When are you leaving? For college, I mean?"

"Probably next August."

"Take me with you!" She dramatically wrapped her arms around his neck and threw her head back like the women in the old movies did.

He laughed. "You want to go to a party school and live in the frat house? Your mom would love that."

"After I'm eighteen, it doesn't matter. I can be Meg Gone Wild."

"Heh! I could live with that. As long as it's only with me, right?" They shared another kiss, but Meg was no longer in the mood. Aaron stayed and watched television with her for about an hour, making sure she was safe and that the strange man hadn't returned. After he left, Meg went into her room, laid on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. At some point, her mother called to check up on her.

"Sorry I'm so late," she said. "I just got tied up. Christine and I had coffee together, and we looked over some of the books."

"That's fine."

"You should meet her. She's such a nice girl; she could probably use a friend right now."

"Yeah," Meg replied. "Sure. Speaking of friends, another weirdo showed up at our door."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'll tell you when you get home."

"Is everything okay?" Worry crept into her mother's voice.

"Yeah. I'll tell you later."

"All right. See you soon."

"Bye." Meg hung up.

At least her mother was working on a 'nice girl' instead of an insane guy.

_Unless she was doing both at the same time._

Meg glanced at Mr. Winston. He'd look great in a bright orange University of Florida sweatshirt and baseball cap.


	6. Chapter 6

Hi, everyone! Thank you for all your wonderful comments. I love reading about your insights into the characters. Hopefully, you'll enjoy this chapter.

Thanks to _MadLizzy _for all her help!

**Enjoy!!!**

"Doing some heavy-duty reading?" asked Raoul, eyeing the stack of books his wife was carrying into the bedroom. She noticed that the color in his face appeared a little brighter.

"No. These are for you."

"What?"

She'd wondered how he was going to react. "We don't have to do this now. But these are supposed to help you heal and become more mobile. I met this wonderful lady at the hospital about a week ago, and she gave them to me. We went over them the other day."

He scowled—but not at her. "I could have killed my mother for not telling you the appointment was cancelled that day. Phillip and I both let her know how screwed up that was."

"What'd she say?" Christine dared to ask.

Raoul shrugged. "Eh. Something about being too busy with me to remember. I'm sorry she's such a pain."

"It's…fine. Something good came out of that day, right?"

She set the books beside him where they made an indentation in the bed. After another second of staring at them with a nearly raised eyebrow, Raoul took the top one and flipped through it. He then tossed that one aside and browsed the second one. "Chris, these are for people with things like osteoporosis and arthritis—people who can move."

"Some are. But there are chapters for severe injuries." She turned the pages of the thickest book until she arrived at the last few chapters. There was a picture of a woman doing stretches in a wheelchair.

Raoul rubbed a hand over his face and turned away from the photograph. "Maybe…some other time."

Christine started to argue and then held her breath, remembering what Amanda had said. She'd noticed that pictures or mentions of wheelchairs tended to deflate him-- as though it was hard for Raoul to accept the next phase of his life. "All right." She stacked the books together again and placed them on a nearby table.

"How's your work going?" he asked, eager to get the conversation away from himself. Raoul often asked about her day and seemed to listen with genuine interest. In some ways, she was one of his remaining connections to the outside world. Christine longed to eventually get him out in public again; maybe he'd finally see the wheelchair as ten times better than being stuck in bed with Theresa hovering over him.

"It's good! The first performance is Friday, and then there are fourteen more after that."

"I wish I could come."

"I do, too. Dad will be there for a couple of them. And…." She paused. "I think Anne is going to show up for some."

"Who's Anne?"

She smiled. "The lady who gave me these books. She was my dance teacher for a short time when I was a kid. Now, she does a lot of charitable work. And…I guess I don't know too much about her yet. But she's so generous. And it's so easy to talk to her."

"That sounds nice," said Raoul. "I'm glad you found a friend. Sometimes…."

"What?"

"Well, we've been together so long, that sometimes I wonder if you didn't make many friends in college because of it."

She scoffed. "Don't be silly. I would have much rather been with you than all those sorority girls."

He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter now. But yeah…Anne sounds cool."

"Yeah!"

Christine thought back to their conversations at a coffee house and a diner. Besides the books, they'd discussed their lives and hobbies. It was obvious that Anne was proud of Meg, although there was always slight concern in her eyes when she talked about her daughter. Christine spoke about her husband and father, including her worries and fears concerning their health. There had been a certain catharsis in the discussions.

She turned back to Raoul and saw him staring into space. "Do you want some light?" she asked, squinting in the dimness.

"No. That window causes it to shine directly on me."

She hated to sound like his mother but…. "Honey, it might help you. Aren't there vitamins in sunlight?"

He groaned. "Please don't be like my---"

"All right, all right," she interrupted him before he could say it. She sighed. "I just want you to get better."

"Better how?" he softly asked. "Out of bed and into a wheelchair?"

"That's the first step."

"And then what?" He nearly glared. "You heard what the doctors said at the last meeting. There's only so far I'm going to go—no matter how much anyone wants to sugarcoat it."

"It doesn't mean you can't be happy," she whispered. "Lots of people can't walk, and they're still happy and living their lives."

The crease in his forehead didn't disappear. "I know. I…need some time to deal with this. I'm not ready to start celebrating yet. This is _not_ how we wanted to spend the rest of our lives. No matter what kind of spin everyone wants to put on it, it's _bad_ that it happened. If I could back in time, I would have taken a different road that day without a glance backward."

She gnawed on her bottom lip, so afraid of saying the wrong thing. "But you can't go back in time. All we can do is make the best of this. That's all either of us can do."

Raoul stared at her, and the irritation on his face morphed into weariness. It was as though he realized that she was right---and that he was condemned. Perhaps she could have added that maybe he would walk again. Maybe that would have made him feel better.

Or would it only make it all more painful in the end? Christine was almost glad when Theresa interrupted them to ask Raoul if he needed any medication or something to drink. "I've got some of my famous homemade lemonade!" she chirped before walking to the blinds and opening them all the way.

Christine had run out of words. And there was no song on the piano that quite fit the mood.

The performances gave her something else to focus on over the next weeks. The first one went well and featured only a few mistakes. One of the stepsisters tripped on her dress and nearly fell on top of the other one. At least that earned a laugh from the audience. The fairy godmother briefly forgot her lines and started making up magic words. Marissa did wonderfully, though, and Christine smiled down at the piano when Cinderella began her song. Some of the higher notes were still a little shaky, but the improvement was noticeable.

Her father came for the third performance. "Aren't all the kids getting good?" she asked him when it was over and they were walking out together.

"To heck with the kids," said her dad with a grin. "I was listening to the piano the whole time."

"Dad," she scolded and poked him in the ribs. Inside, though, she was beaming with pride.

Anne came for the fourth performance, sitting in the middle of the audience with a peaceful expression. Christine saw her as she headed for the piano bench and felt her spirits rise. She played her best that night. The kids did well, too, although one of the mice had a brief coughing fit and had to scamper off stage.

When the show ended, she stretched and started to make her way through the crowds. Anne was already at the back of the theatre, and her mouth was drawn into a tense, straight line. Christine squinted. It sort of looked like she was speaking to someone. But…no one was there. Or was there? With the weird theatre lighting, it was hard to distinguish a shadow from a person.

Finally, Christine was close enough to see that indeed no one was nearby. Anne blinked at her, still wringing her hands together. "Oh, Christine! Hi, dear. You play beautifully."

"Hi! Thanks!" Christine quickly glanced around them. "Were you…speaking to someone earlier?"

"No. No one."

"Oh. Your face is kind of pale. Are you okay?"

"Yes. I've just been on my feet awhile."

"Oh! Well, come sit down." She motioned to one of the empty plush chairs.

Anne shook her head and took a step backward. "Actually, I have quite a bit to do this evening. Some…cleaning up for the theatre. Why don't you head on home, dear? I'll come another night, too, and maybe we can have a cup of coffee afterward."

"Sure! That sounds good." Christine hesitated. She had a strange feeling that something was…off. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine." Anne hugged her with one arm. "Now you go home and get some rest."

Christine returned the hug. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and walk with you to your car? It's kind of dark."

"No," Anne murmured. "I'll be…safe. I have pepper spray. You go on home."

"All right. Have a good night. Thank you for everything." Christine made her way toward the exit. She glanced back once, but Anne was already gone.

* * *

"Are you befriending the younger crowd now?"

Her heart was still racing from the initial encounter. As she'd been walking toward the back to wait for Christine, he'd popped out from behind a purple curtain on the wall and nearly caused her to scream in surprise. After Christine had left, she ducked into an alcove with him while the rest of the audience and their children filtered out of the building. "What in God's name are you doing here, Erik?"

"I told you I wished to see you again. Would you prefer me to show up at your very humble home?"

"No. But you could have warned me….."

"Hah. You do not wish for me to see your daughter. And now you do not wish for me to meet your friends. Do I shame you, Anne?"

She frowned and felt a pain in her heart. "You're the one who tries to avoid people."

He chuckled. "I am only kidding with you. But what _are_ you doing with a young, dressed-up female? Do people your own age bore you?"

"It's unimportant." He studied her, and Anne knew she was only piquing his interest by being mysterious. She sighed. "The poor girl has been through a lot. Her father is not in good health, and her husband was in a horrific accident. She's a very sweet person and my friend, and I came to hear her play the piano. That's all."

"Ever the philanthropist." He clicked his tongue. "There is actually a reason I came to see you. A reason of slight importance."

She eyed him; this could never be good. "And what is that?"

He folded his hands behind his back and took on a relaxed stance. The theatre was nearly empty now. Only a janitor with headphones was sweeping the floor. "Awhile back," Erik began. "I…assisted a police officer in apprehending a rather seasoned criminal. It was of benefit to us both. You see, there were two brothers—each with his own organized crime circle, and both were very territorial. On his death bed, their father made them both swear upon a Bible that they would not murder each other. And so the younger brother decided the best way around that was to have the eldest permanently incarcerated. Family is odd, isn't it, Anne?"

"I suppose so…."

"Perhaps I should be elated that I never had one…. Anyhow, I entered into several profitable arrangements with both the police officer and the younger brother. The older brother was tried and jailed for life. The officer was promoted, and, in turn, he managed to…look the other way when it came to my affairs. The younger brother compensated me. Everyone was quite pleased. Except the incarcerated brother, of course. As he had a rather unhealthy interest in children, though, no one mourned his situation."

"Goodness," Anne murmured, her mind flying in several different directions. _The things Erik did…. At least he'd caught a criminal…in a way…._

Erik leaned forward slightly, taking on a more aggressive stance. "The officer has recently been promoted again. Captain, I believe. When I met him, he was quite down on his luck. His parents were both Iranian immigrants, and he was having a difficult time in the political environment. But Mr. Khan has done well for himself over the last years, and I believe he may be following me now. I do not know his intentions. I do not know what he wants. But I am watching him. If he decides to betray me, I will be…very disappointed."

"Maybe he only wants to speak to you."

"Yes…perhaps over dinner and cigars, no?"

"What do you want of me?" warily asked Anne.

"If you run into him, question him a bit. See what he tells you. Pretend not to have had contact with me for years, though. I do not want him knowing my exact location at any time."

"Why should I do this?" she asked. "I don't want to have a part in your strange affairs."

Erik laughed. "You'll do this simple task because you are my friend, Anne. I'll even compensate---"

"No, no. No money. I'll…if I see him, I won't give anything away." She rubbed her forehead. "I'm not promising to get any information from him."

"Good enough. You will do well, I'm sure. He had better watch himself." Erik's eyes narrowed.

"He's not dangerous, is he?"

"Not to you. He follows his own odd code of ethics and is certainly not the type to harass a woman. For the most part, he is upstanding. Although he does have his moments of…moral weakness. "

"As long as he's not a threat to my daughter…."

"I would never put you or Meg in danger. Never. But that is enough concerning the aggravating Mr. Khan." Erik gazed around the room. "Surely there are pianos in this establishment."

"Probably," she replied.

"Then I shall play for you. Did you bring my chicken?"

"I didn't even know you were--"

"I jest, Anne. I jest. I will play without my parmigiana."

"But--"

He ducked out of the alcove before she could speak, and Anne followed. She stayed in his footsteps so as to blend in with the shadows; Erik was an expert at staying invisible. They walked upstairs and down a corridor, and he darted into a darkened room. She quickly entered behind him, and Erik closed the door with a soft click.

"You already knew there was a piano here, didn't you?" she asked with a soft laugh.

"The walls in here are sound barriers," he somberly replied with his narrow back toward her. Erik sat at the piano bench and stretched out his boney fingers, bending them back and forth. He went through a few warm-up exercises, up and down the piano, and then launched into a song. Anne closed her eyes in complete delight. Oh, she'd missed this--the utter perfection in his Mozart sonatas. She nearly stood there in a trance, unaware that tears were forming in her eyes. It was possible that Erik didn't even recall how to read music; he had simply stored songs in his memory. That was his gift.

He had been the boy with the most potential in the world and was now the man who was wasting every bit of it day by day. If she were braver, she might have grabbed him by the shoulders, shaken him, and screamed: _What is wrong with you? _

But she wasn't that brave. And she already knew what was wrong with him. Just as mankind had started catastrophic wars and sent millions of innocents to their graves, it had also helped shape the creature in front of her.

At some point, Erik stopped playing and turned his head to stare at her.

Still in a daze, she was unable to say anything for a few seconds. "Thank you," she finally murmured as he stood. "I missed that."

"As did I. You are the only one I play for because you do not mind ugly things. And for whatever reason, I was…inspired tonight," he said. "It was a severe urge to play. That is odd after so many years of not touching the instrument, isn't it?"

"I don't know." They headed for the door. Erik checked to make sure no one was nearby and then led them toward the glowing green exit signs. "Will I run into you again?" she asked. A part of her hoped she would, and the other part hoped he would leave her life and stop causing her fear and pain.

"Will you attend the rest of the performances?"

"Maybe some of them."

"We will see. I have not quite decided which path to embark upon." He shrugged. "Goodnight, Anne. Do not forget Mr. Khan."

"Goodnight," she replied. After she was at the exit, Erik disappeared. With a sigh, she headed out the door and into the parking lot, a hollow feeling taking over her chest and stomach.

Although it was a little eerie in the dark and by herself, Anne knew she wouldn't need the pepper spray. He was still watching her as she walked to her car. No one would be able to lay a hand on her.

* * *

At the next meeting, which took place in the Chagny home thanks to Henry's large fortune, several doctors and therapists explained that the first exercises would be aimed at strengthening Raoul's upper body. Before mobility was even considered, he had to learn how to sit up and gain control of his torso. Raoul appeared miserable as they explained this to him. Theresa didn't help, making comments such as, "I really don't think he's well enough to even consider this type of activity now. Why won't everyone let my poor son rest?"

Once they were away from Raoul's family, Christine followed the doctors outside and asked about the books Anne had given her. "Can they help at all?"

One of the specialists in spinal cord injuries nodded. "They can make people feel better…sometimes ease the pain."

"But will they help him walk again?" she pressed.

The doctor stared down at her with pity in his eyes. "Mrs. Chagny, if they could do that, we all would have dropped out of medical school and taught yoga. They can be an important part of his healing process, but don't expect them to work miracles."

Christine nodded and went back inside, never mentioning the conversation to anyone else.

In fact, she avoided discussing the books or therapy at all with Raoul; it tended to put him in a bad mood. Instead, Christine stuck to telling him about the children's theatre, informing him about the various mishaps and making him chuckle. He seemed happier with this arrangement. Until Theresa confronted her in the living room, Christine had thought all was starting to go smoothly.

"You should be careful telling him about your day," stated Theresa with her arms crossed. "It's a bit like taunting him."

"What?" Christine glanced up from her glass of iced tea. "He likes it when I tell him about what I'm doing. I'm including him in my life."

"Don't you understand? He only wants to know that you're not miserable with him like this."

"Well, I'm not miserable. But I have a small job that I really enjoy, and right now it's our only income."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "It's hardly any income. And you don't need it right now; you have everything you need right here."

"What exactly are you saying?" asked Christine, the heat rising in her cheeks. She placed the drink on the coffee table to keep from throwing it.

"I'm saying that maybe you should focus this time on Raoul's recovery instead of banging away at a piano all week—and then going up to his room and telling him about how much fun you're having without him."

Christine ground her teeth together. "I am not giving up my job," she evenly stated. "I am not giving up my piano or the children's theatre. I need them, and Raoul and I are better because of it. And someday we are leaving this house and resuming our lives." Theresa started to say something, but Christine whirled around and ran out of the room, angrier than she had ever been at the woman.

There was a performance that evening, and Christine arrived at the complex two hours early and headed for her practice room. She played a staccato piece at near forte. When some of her tension was released, she eased back into some softer pieces. Taking deep breaths, she closed her eyes and tried to relax, rolling her shoulders backward. It wouldn't do if her background music made _Cinderella _sound like a deep, dark tragedy.

"Christine?"

She opened her eyes at the familiar voice and turned to see Marissa standing there. Thankfully, most of her anger had faded, and she didn't snap at the poor girl. "Yeah? What's up?"

Marissa ran up to her with a grin. "Guess what? Guess what? My dad's coming tonight!"

"That's great!" Christine gave her a one-armed hug.

"I didn't think he would. He never comes to anything." She was nearly jumping up and down. "I'm so freaked out. What if I mess up?"

"Take deep breaths," said Christine. "You'll do fine. But here. We'll get you ready for your best performance ever." She was thrilled to be able to concentrate on something else.

They warmed up, and then Marissa sang her piece all the way through. When it was over, Christine said, "Listen to me sing the second part, okay?" Marissa eagerly nodded. Ignoring her nervousness, Christine started in the middle and sang the last half, emphasizing certain notes that Marissa tended to miss. "Your turn." Marissa repeated, and Christine nodded in approval."Now once more together. Just relax and have fun." They amused themselves the final time, putting an extra dose of passion into the music and letting loose.

Both girls were laughing after the song ended, their chests rising and falling. "Great job," said Christine.

"Thanks." Marissa paused. "I_ really_ had to pretend no one was watching."

"What?"

"Remember? I pretend no one is watching me so I don't get nervous?"

"Yeah. But no one is watching us right now." _They'd better not be; she'd die if anyone heard her that last time. _

"Oh." Marissa nibbled on her bottom lip and frowned. "I…felt like someone was."

Christine ruffled her head. "You're only nervous about your dad."

"Maybe." Marissa shivered. "I just got the willies."

Christine shuddered, too, and then nervously giggled. "Now you gave them to me."

"Heh!" Marissa glanced at the closed door, and her smile faded. "Will you…walk out with me?"

"Sure." They left the room together side-by-side. As far as Christine could tell, there was no one nearby. She attributed Marissa's behavior to her difficulty with her parents' divorce. From the hints she had picked up on, it had been a nasty one. Marissa was probably still suffering from the effects.

Still, an uneasy feeling remained with Christine the rest of the evening, causing her to hit the wrong keys a few times. She felt a gnawing in her stomach, and the temperature was a little too cold for comfort.

When the performance was over, Christine unsuccessfully searched for Anne. _Maybe she didn't come tonight. Oh well. I'm tired, anyway. _Making her way through the lines of people, she jogged to her car and climbed inside. She locked her doors, snapped on her seatbelt, and stayed slightly over the speed limit all the way home. Once at the glowing Chagny house, she nearly ran inside.

Christine ascended the stairs and headed straight for her husband's room. For whatever reason—maybe she was still upset about Theresa--she wanted to lie down beside Raoul and have him wrap an arm around her. She needed to feel secure. With relief, she arrived at his bedroom and pulled open the door.

But he was asleep.

"Please do _not _wake him up," whispered Theresa from behind her. "He's exhausted."

Without glancing at her mother-in-law, Christine backed up several steps and then turned around. She slowly padded back downstairs, feeling lost. Not wanting to be alone, she contented herself to go into the living area where Henry was reading a book. He glanced at her over his glasses. "Everything all right?"

"Yes." He nodded and returned to his novel. For about an hour, she remained curled up on the sofa, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock.

She wished she had gone to her dad's house instead. He was the other one who could protect her from the…well, the _nothingness._


	7. Chapter 7

Hi, all! Here's the next chapter. I continue to enjoy your thoughts on the characters. Hopefully, this chapter will leave you more to think about.

Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing.

**Enjoy!!!**

He remembered being seven and sitting in a swing, rocking back and forth on the tips of muddy bare toes. The ropes were frayed, and the four-legged metal stand was stained with rust. From the door of a tiny white house that was missing half its shingles, his foster father was screaming at him to "get in the house before I kick your ass."

He ignored the vile bastard, his eyes focused upon a front yard several houses down the street. Two children, a boy and a girl with shiny red hair, were given brand new bicycles. They bounced up and down as their parents wheeled the shiny objects out of the garage. The little girl's had a basket and training wheels, and the boy's featured a horn. As the father lifted his daughter onto the seat, the mother handed her son a helmet. The parents stepped back and smiled while their two children rode up and down the driveway, the girl trying to keep up with her brother.

_That's it. I'm gonna come over there and kick the shit out of you, boy. _

Up and down went the bicycles. Up and down. It was perhaps his first moment of acceptance. He would not have that. _Ever._ So it was best to focus on other matters--like destroying the wiring of the television that his foster father loved so much. He enjoyed watching the idiot curse and scream at the screen… pulling his thinning, greasy hair out of his head.

It was best to work with what one had, he'd learned. People who spent their entire lives yearning for what they could never have were fools.

He'd heard her coming before she'd entered the room, fast but soft footsteps against linoleum. For whatever reason, he'd felt a strong drive toward music over the past days—so intense that he was unable to focus on anything else. When he wasn't playing the piano, he was frantically pacing. And so he continued to hover at the performance arts complex, immersing himself in music when he wasn't trying to determine Nadir Khan's intentions…or occasionally spying on Anne.

Annoyed at the girl's approach, he'd abandoned the piano and started to dart for an exit. The rooms were designed so that one connected to the other from the sides, which gave him plenty of quick escapes. He headed for an exit that was half-hidden from view by a rack of wooden shelves containing a library of piano compositions. Softly opening the door, he started to duck into the empty adjoining room.

The girl began to play, and he paused in his steps, leaving the door barely cracked open to observe her. It was amusing to hear her banging the piano as loudly as possible---like watching a raging mouse abusing the poor instrument. Her mouth was drawn into a scowl, and her hair was dropping into her face.

Anne needed new friends.

When the younger girl entered, he became bored and started to leave. Female chatter was often mindless; it took some women nearly an hour to say what could be said in minutes.

But then they sang. Or, more importantly, _she_ sang. And, for one moment, those damned bicycles flashed in his mind. Up and down. Up and down. Horrified, he was forced to lean against the nearest wall. She was slightly turned to the side, and he could see her left flushed cheek and one blue eye. Each note she sang was like an immobilizing zap of electricity coursing through his body. He would know; someone had once used a Taser upon him.

But the bicycles disappeared as he had trained them to do. And he was left just…watching and listening.

Of course, the song ended. They chattered a bit more; the younger girl had sensed his presence. It wasn't the first time; children were often very perceptive. If more fathers had heeded their children's warning that _someone was in the house _or _there's a monster in my closet_…well, the fathers might have survived a little bit longer. Of course, most of those parents had also been drug traffickers and hit men, so perhaps the children were better off now.

Without a second thought as to _why_, he returned for the next performances, but she never sang. She only played the wretched piano at an amateur level, leaving him entirely unsatisfied. Whenever she left the building, her posture was that of a kicked puppy. _How pathetic._ Throughout his time spent in the shadows of bars and clubs, he had been forced to watch arrogant women expose their bodies while singing like rabid hyenas. And now this one had pure talent and refused to sing a word. She likely would have worn a burqa if it was acceptable in her culture. He wanted to strangle her until she held her head up higher and sang something. Damned_ girl._

Thoughts of her began to consume his mind after every performance. Really, she had been in the back of his consciousness since he had first seen her with Anne. Lying on a bed in a three-star hotel room, he could see it now-- this perfect vision. That girl could be entirely…_profitable._ No one had discovered her yet; the little mouse stayed in her hole. But she was a yellow-haired goldmine. A buried treasure. And _he_ had found her first.

Christine was blonde and slender, still young enough to be marketable in a harsh world. She was vulnerable. But, from Anne, he also knew she was married and therefore not entirely innocent. That combination would play very well. Her voice matched her demeanor, pure yet sprinkled with a degree of misery. He gathered that she had some vocal training but not nearly enough.

But now what? What did he even do from this point? The musical world was not quite the same as the criminal underworld. There had to be some legitimacy and formality. He could not hold a gun to her head and force her to sing. A hoarse chuckle escaped his dry lips at that thought. Well…perhaps if nothing else worked….

Oh, but she had to sing again. He would…hurt someone if she didn't.

Toward the last performances—by the time he had every line in that idiotic play memorized-- he panicked and followed her home, perhaps to see if she sang at other places. She disliked risk, waiting for the green light to turn right even when no oncoming cars were visible. She stopped to put gas in her vehicle, nervously checking over her shoulder as she held the pump, and then drove to a home bordering on a mansion. Her postured was stooped as she headed into the house. He saw a blond, muscular man walk outside to his car and wondered if that was her husband. Anne had said he was in an accident, but he appeared in disgustingly good shape. _Odd. But who really cared? Anne was prone to exaggeration. And the girl was gone._

What if she never sang again?

The rational part of his mind told him it was time to leave and move onto some other endeavor. What the hell was he still doing here? There were things to do…people to see…bank accounts to hack. Nadir Khan could betray him at any moment. In fact, he should have already formed a plan to dispose of Nadir in the case of treachery. And yet all of that seemed less important. He wanted that voice back.

And that girl could be so…lucrative. Possibly more profitable than his previous activities. What if someone else eventually discovered her? He'd kill them! This was his find. If he couldn't have her talent, then no one could. But how would he ever get her to sing again? She'd flee at the sight of him. She was ignorant to her ability--a dying, withering deer.

The last performance arrived. No song. No voice. At the end, the girl abandoned her piano and ran up to… Anne.

"I can't believe it's over!" she exclaimed. Tears sparkled in her eyes. "What am I going to do now?"

"You'll find something," Anne assured her. They embraced. "I'm sure there are lots of places looking for accompanists. Have you checked with the local schools?"

"That's an idea," she replied. "I just…I need the piano. Theresa is driving me insane. She makes me feel terrible all the time."

"Try to ignore her. No one can take your music away from you," said Anne. They walked outside together, shoulders touching as they continued their conversation.

It was obvious, wasn't it? Too obvious.

Anne. Quiet, patient Anne. The girl trusted Anne.

That night, he left a note at Anne's front door stating that he wanted to meet with her again, preferably at the same complex. As expected, she came at the correct time with a covered tin foil plate, no doubt disturbed by his brief presence at her home…and proximity to her daughter. She was odd when it came to Meg.

He remained composed as she entered. This likely wouldn't go well; still, he didn't want her to know how…important this was to him. He also wouldn't mention the financial implications; Anne considered greed to be one of the worst sins. It was his second favorite sin--right after pride.

"Erik," she said, squinting in the dim lighting. "I'd wondered if you'd left. I hadn't seen you in so long." She weakly smiled and handed him the tin dish. "Here's your parmigiana"

"Thank you for my chicken, Anne. " He took it, the fresh smell of tomato sauce and breading entering his non-existent nostrils. "I had business to attend to."

"Oh."

"The details of it would likely bore you," he continued with a nonchalant shrug.

"You don't have to tell me," she replied, glancing away. "I don't care to know. How much longer will you be here? I haven't run into your…acquaintance yet."

"Nadir has decided to keep a low profile for now. I still have no doubt he will try to reach you."

"Mm."

"As to how much longer, I do not know. It will depend. I have several questions for you," he carefully began.

She glanced at him, the suspicion already evident on her features. "Yes?"

"That girl…do you visit with that girl often?"

"Who?"

"Christine, Anne. Do you see Christine?"

"A few times a week," she replied, adjusting her collar. "Why?"

"How long have you known her?"

"Several weeks. I mean, when she was a little girl, she was in my dance class, but…." Anne shrugged. "Why are you asking?"

"Did you know that she sings?"

"No. I only knew about the piano." Anne squinted. "How do you know?"

"I heard her by chance. In a practice room. She sings rather well."

"Oh." She wrung her hands together. It was all too easy to make poor Anne nervous. "Well…maybe she does have some talent. She's a lovely girl."

"She _is_ talented. But not at the piano. Her voice is…she could be brilliant, Anne. Did you know that? Do you know what she could be? Did you know you have befriended a diva in the rough?"

As he feared, a wary frown descended on Anne's face. "What are you talking about?"

"I wrote a song over the past few days." He turned her attention to himself. He had a talent for creating confusion; people were generally only capable of following one train of thought. "I have played and played. I have played everything. I have written my own."

"That's wonderful," she replied with a genuine smile. "I'm thrilled you've taken it up again."

"You wanted me to pursue music," he stated.

"I did," she agreed. "I think it suits you."

"Christine sings."

"Yes, well…." Anne tilted her head to the side. "You're starting to lose me, Erik."

"It is simple. All music must have a face. And not a face that causes people to lose the contents of their stomachs."

"What?"

"Anne!" He set her name with such force that she stepped backward. "Tell her she must continue singing. Tell her she is wasting everything. Tell her to get voice lessons. _Anything._ She will listen to you, you know? She's fond of you. Make her sing. Her silence is the world's greatest tragedy."

"_What?_ " Anne drew back, her fingers curling at her sides. "I don't know what you're playing at, but that girl is going through hell right now. I'm not going to give her even more stress. She needs my support."

He nearly growled. "She will be much better if she sings. Much healthier."

"Why do you even care? She has nothing to do with you. I don't even…." Anne threw her hands up. "I don't understand you half the time. This came out of thin air!"

"Fine, Anne. Fine. I will forget music and return to my former activities. Do you realize how easy it is to commit identity theft these days? A few clicks of a button, and I could take down some of the nation's largest banks. Won't that be fun, Anne? Won't it?"

Anne pursed her lips. "I am clearly failing to understand what Christine's singing has to do with you taking up a legitimate career in music. You don't even know her!"

"You go on and on about how you want this and that of me. And now I wish to pursue something you consider wholesome, and you hurl it back in my face!" he spat. "You are a hypocrite, Anne!"

"I am not…." She paused and stared at him, desperately studying him to understand. But she would never understand. "She needs time to get her life fixed," Anne finally murmured. "Christine doesn't need any confusion. She needs me to be there for her."

"She needs to sing."

"The piano is relaxing to her; she needs that. She needs…tranquility. She'll think I'm insane if I tell her she should sing."

"Fine," he muttered. "Fine. I see. You do not want a monster near your friends. I see you do not care. You do not care about Erik. You only pretend to when it suits you."

"I do care. I--"

"No. Never mind. Forget the matter. You are right. It is no place for me." He turned his back to her. "I will leave. I wish to see you one last time," he stated, pretending to have brushed away the entire idea. "Here. At eight o'clock on Tuesday of next week. To say my farewell. And then you will never see Erik again. And you can be happy. I will never bother you again."

"You can have music without involving that poor girl," she said. She tried to touch his shoulder, but he moved away from her. "I'll get practice rooms reserved for you. I'll contact people in the industry. Anything. Why are you acting like this?"

"No," he coldly retorted, grinding the guilt into her. He hoped it would keep her up that night. "Music is not for monsters."

"That is not what I--"

He disappeared before she could finish. Still, he had partially predicted this. Of course Anne would be protective of that sad, quivering little deer. Anne was simply not dependable, and he would have to take a less direct route.

And that was fine. He was entirely used to the back roads.

* * *

It was beginning to seem that the only place Christine felt completely secure was her father's house. At the Chagny's, Theresa was always glaring or making comments beneath her breath. When Christine was in public or playing the piano, an unnerving feeling had begun to descend upon her. The latter was hard to explain—just a general sense of unease. That wasn't good for her mental health, was it? Feeling paranoid for no reason? She didn't tell anyone for fear they'd want her to see a therapist.

For Raoul's sake, she tried to ignore Theresa. He had begun some very simple exercises, mostly stretches for his back and upper torso. He did them with a dismayed expression, as though someone were slowly torturing him to death. Christine would murmur words of encouragement while Theresa would order the doctors and therapists to be careful with her son.

Once the therapist was gone one afternoon, Christine ran her hands along his knee. "Can you feel anything?"

"Not really," he murmured. "Just the tiniest pressure."

"Well, that's something!"

"Yeah. Something."

She ran her hand through his hair. His face had become paler over the weeks, and he'd lost some weight. The doctors said this was normal, but it still made her feel more out of control, as though her husband were deteriorating before her eyes. Life had once seemed so certain.

They'd been voted cutest couple in high school; they were supposed to be perfect. Everyone thought so. Always in love. No money trouble. Adorable children. Summers at the beach. Winters at ski lodges. Her father, when he was in the hospital, had once said, "At least I know you have someone to take care of you. That's what makes me the happiest. I want to know you'll be okay."

_Well…now…we'll just have to take care of each other. _

She leaned down to press her lips to his, deepening the kiss after a moment. Raoul briefly returned it before gently pulling away and leaning back, glancing away from her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, trying not to sound offended.

"No."

"Please tell me."

"I still…want you," he replied with a sigh. "That's not numb."

"What?"

"I still want you. It's difficult. Please, Chris."

It took her a moment to understand. "Oh. Love. I'm sorry. I didn't even…but the doctors said there's a good chance that's all still possible. It's not…over."

"Yeah. That's going to be interesting." He was unusually sarcastic. "I can lie here."

"It's just going to take--"

"Time," he interrupted. "I know. I know."

Their last time had been in the early morning hours before the accident--warm, sweet, and gentle in their bedroom. The memory nearly gave her heartache. Still, while she had missed Raoul's strong presence beside her every night, she hadn't obsessed over their current inability to be intimate. There were so many more important matters. But obviously it was upsetting him "Well, we'll--" She was stopped from carrying on the uncomfortable conversation when Henry strode into the room.

"Hi, Dad," said Raoul. There was always tension in his face when he was near his father. Henry could never quite look him in the eye, as though it were difficult for him to see his son in such a vulnerable position.

"Good morning," he said. Henry held out an envelope. "I just came to give Christine a letter."

She took it and chuckled when she saw the address. "Oh. I got one of these at my dad's house, too. I guess they have both addresses." She squinted. "I didn't remember giving them both."

"What is it?" asked Raoul.

"An invitation to a meeting with some of the people from the children's theatre and other organizations on Tuesday evening. They might need me as an accompanist." Her smile faded. "The next children's show won't be until spring. So I don't know what they'll want me for but…."

"Are you going?"

"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay with you. It might be an opportunity."

"Yes. Go!" he urged. "Get out of this house for both of us."

"Should be fun," murmured Henry before leaving.

She took her husband's hand. "One of these days, you're going out with me again. We'll go out to dinner. How about that steak restaurant you love so much?"

He weakly smiled. "I thought you hated that place."

"If you go out with me, I'll both go there _and_ get the liver platter!"

"Yeah. I'd go just to see that." The sadness didn't leave his eyes.

After briefly mulling it over, she decided to definitely go to the meeting. Who knew? Maybe someone would be there who would know about other opportunities for her to play the piano. Maybe she'd even get a better job! Christine was becoming addicted to music, and the thought of having to part with it made her ill.

And she needed to get away from her mother-in-law.

"You're going out late," said Theresa, staring her up and down that Tuesday evening. She then made a point of glancing at her watch.

"Just to a little meeting," she replied, gathering her purse and keys. "I'll be back soon."

"Well, Raoul and I are going to watch a movie together. He needs some company at night." Theresa gave her a short expression of disgust and then ascended the stairs.

Clenching her jaw, Christine left the gilded prison and drove to the complex. She frowned as she saw that only a few lights glowed from inside the building. Was she early? No. She was on time. Maybe they were in a room that wasn't facing her.

After straightening her white blouse and grey skirt so that she appeared professional, Christine entered through the glass doors and climbed the nearest flight of stairs. The only other person she saw was a janitor mopping the tiles. Each step made a soft squeaking noise beneath her black heels. An aching sensation settled inside her stomach, the same one that had been bothering her over the past week. The building was so very quiet.

Once she reached the top, she walked down the hall, arms folded against her chest as she searched for the right room. Finally, she found it and opened the door with a soft creak. A light was on inside, and she started to release a sigh of relief.

But the room was empty—except for Anne Giry, standing with her arms crossed and staring at the floor. The rest of the lights in the room were off, which made it appear as though Anne were in a spotlight amidst eerie shadows. Still, Christine was relieved to see her friend.

"Hi!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing in the silence. "Were you invited, too?" She giggled. "I was beginning to think I had the wrong date."

Anne jumped, and her mouth fell open. For several seconds, she just stared with wide, almost horrified eyes. "Invited?" she nearly coughed out.

"To the meeting?"

"The meeting?" Anne whispered.

"Yeah. What's wrong?"

Anne put a hand to her lips, her face growing white. "Christine, you need to leave." Her voice was sterner than Christine had ever heard it. "I' m meeting someone here."

"What? But I got an invitation."

"I don't know about an invitation, but you shouldn't be here right now. Please go. I'll call you later."

She felt hurt; Anne had never been so cold. _Was everyone going to abandon her?_ "Why?" Christine softly asked.

"This is not a good place for you to be."

I don't under--"

"_Don't be ridiculous, Anne! She is perfectly fine here!"_

The booming, ethereal voice attacked her from all directions at the same time. Christine jumped a foot into the air and whirled around, before quickly backing up into the nearest wall. Her heart thudded, and she could barely breathe, using the cold plaster to support herself. As her survival instincts began to kick in, she searched for the source of the sound, her eyes unable to adjust to the uneven lighting. Finally, she saw…something. A shape in the corner that was farthest away from her—standing beside a piano…a figure and two faint, yellow dots.

Anne stood nearby with one hand against her chest, her mouth still half-open.

"Should I call 9-11?" Christine whispered once she could talk, wondering if she could dial in time to save both of them. Her shaking hand fumbled in her purse for the cell phone.

For several seconds, there was no reply. "No," finally whispered Anne. "No. I know him."

"Anne and I are very good friends," said the other…man.

Anne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "This is…is a…an…a friend, yes."

Christine's hands dropped away from her phone. "Oh. Hi. I'm…sorry. You just…you startled me," she stuttered. "I didn't know…anyone else was in here." She gave Anne a desperate glance.

"I was telling Christine that…she'd made a mistake." Anne continued, staring at the man with an expression Christine couldn't read. "She was under the impression there was a meeting here."

"Well, this is a meeting, no?" asked the man. "Three is a meeting." The tenor voice was beautiful yet too strange to be comforting.

"Yes, well Christine will leave now," Anne replied. "This is all a mistake. A very big mistake."

"No mistake," he replied. "No. I think this is a perfect arrangement. You see, Anne and I wished to discuss your music with you. We think you're very talented, don't we, Anne?"

Mrs. Giry's lips tightened into a line. "I…yes," she murmured. "Yes. Of course Christine is talented."

"Thank you," Christine replied. "I…enjoy playing."

"Not the piano," he scoffed. "At the piano, you…well, never mind that. It is unimportant. You sing. We both think you sing well. Anne just adores your voice."

"I don't sing." She gave Anne another bewildered glance. "I only play the piano."

"You do sing," retorted the man. "We heard you by chance in a practice room."

Her mouth fell open. "But I…that was just...I was just helping a little girl."

"Anne and I thought you should know of your talent. I am a musician, you know? So I would understand these matters. And Anne was very proud of you. Aren't you, Anne? Aren't you proud of Christine? Don't you think she has great potential?"

"She does," Anne murmured with a tone of defeat. "But…I think Christine has to make her own decisions. I don't know if this is the right time to discuss this with her."

"I'm not really that good, anyway," Christine whispered, taking a step backwards. "I think…there has been a mistake."

"No. No mistake," he replied. "You could be famous, you know. Financially secure. Adored by the public. It's so simple. Don't you understand that? Don't you understand what you could be?"

"I don't think…." Her voice tapered off; she was too terrified to argue with him. Heavens, she could barely confront her stupid mother-in-law. Fighting with a shadowy figure standing in a corner who nearly looked like a comic book villain …well…her legs were barely supporting her. "I don't…think this is right," she finally murmured.

"Wait a moment, girl. Wait a moment. Listen. Listen." Before she could move, he sat at the piano and began to play. He played perfectly. Scary perfect. So perfect that she was nearly hypnotized. It was a fast song in a minor key, and he had every note committed to memory. It weaved around her, paralyzing her until there was nothing but music in her mind. And when it was over, she was left standing with her head still bobbing up and down to the melody like a yo-yo on a string.

"Do you see?" he asked, standing. "Now don't you believe I have an ear for this? Of course my technique is rusty. It has been some time. But perhaps you would know how to repair that after your numerous lessons, no?"

The fog finally lifted, and she stepped backward. _What was this? Was she dreaming?_ "I don't think you need my help," she whispered.

"Get out of here," murmured Anne into her ear. Christine started, unaware that Mrs. Giry had walked up beside her. "I am so, so sorry for all of this."

Christine nodded once, turned around, and ran. Out of the room, down the stairs, and into her car. She never looked back, and she didn't remember the drive home. Her first lucid thought was relief when she reached her dad's house and raced inside, slamming and locking the door behind her. He came out of his bedroom, wearing black sweatpants and a white t-shirt as he sleepily rubbed his eyes. She nearly tackled him with a desperate hug.

Stunned, he slowly wrapped his arms around her. "Christine? What in the world is wrong? Is Raoul okay?"

_What did she say?_ _I met a…a shadow man who wanted me to sing? He complimented my voice, and it was scary? He played the piano perfectly, and I couldn't move? _

_Or maybe there was no one in that room, and I'm completely insane? _

God, what if she was crazy? What if none of that had happened? _Maybe I have illusions of grandeur, thinking anyone would actually care if I ever sang or played the stupid piano._ She nearly laughed sickly at that thought.

Her entire life was becoming one strange, awful mess.

Exhausted and lost, she started to cry, burying her face into her father's shoulder. "Please don't ever leave me," she softly begged between sobs. "Don't ever leave me."

"I won't, sweetheart. I won't."


	8. Chapter 8

A big thanks to all who continue to read! I'm glad that most of you are enjoying this Erik. He's a bit different than I've written him in the past, but he's been fun to develop. He has self-control, which makes him all the more dangerous.

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her editing help!

**Enjoy!!!**

"That was nightmare…a disaster." Anne's fingers were curled into the palms of her hands, her untrimmed fingernails digging into her flesh. He didn't reply, deciding to let her get it all out of her system. Women tended to become calmer after short bouts of hysteria. "You used me!" she spat. "You used me! You knew she'd talk to you if I was here. Erik, what in God's name are you trying to do? What are you thinking? Have you completely lost your…." She slouched against the wall and closed her eyes, releasing a long, slow breath.

"I only wanted music," he calmly replied. "That is all, Anne. That is all. It is so simple. Only music."

"But that has nothing to do with her!"

"I wanted to share my music," he stated. "And now I have no one to share music with. No one. And her voice…." He'd try guilt again; Anne was frazzled and therefore vulnerable. "But I suppose I was too ugly for her. Did you see her run? Yes, too ugly for music and her. And now she is gone--just like everyone else. They all run from Erik."

"Well, you startled her…appearing out of nowhere like that. Staying in the shadows and then telling her she could be famous. Like some kind of ghost from the future! Of course she was scared! I'll be lucky if she ever speaks to me again!"

She was being difficult tonight. "No, Anne. No. She knew I was a monster. And that is why she ran. She didn't want to share my music. She didn't want to share her voice. And I have nothing. Because I am hideous."

"Erik…."

He held out his curled up hands to her in feigned desperation, inserting as much pathetic sadness into his voice as possible. "An ugly monster. They all run! Even when I attempt to give them gifts! Just like all the children did…."

"Oh, Erik." The anger slowly evaporated from Anne's face, and her eyes softened. "You're not an ugly monster. But I _told_ you she was fragile. I told you it wasn't a good time to bring this up to her. It had nothing to do with you."

_Excellent._ "It does not matter now," he moaned. "You were right, Anne. You were right. I should have left her alone. It was ridiculous. All I wanted was to share my music with her. I had no music for so long. But I suppose I should return to the darkness. I had forgotten just how hideous I was." In reality, he didn't consider the meeting especially horrid. The girl had listened, if only briefly. And now he had planted an idea in her poor, unstable mind. Still, it was important to keep Anne in a certain frame of thought.

"Erik, it has nothing to do with you," repeated Anne in a soothing voice. "She's very fragile. Everything frightens her. Let me help you with your music. She can't help you have a career. She can barely help herself."

"No, no." He slouched his shoulders, letting his arms hang at his sides. "I don't even want music now. I don't want it. I want to leave and continue with my other plans." He paused. "But you will not tell her terrible things about me, will you? If she asks later?"

"No. Of course not. I'll tell her as little as possible about you. I hope she hasn't called the police after this; I don't think she will. But you should forget her. She's already two steps away from therapy."

"Yes," he replied. "Perhaps someday she will realize her talent. And someone else will discover her." And then he'd strangle that individual.

"I doubt it," said Anne. "I think she's destined for a quiet life taking care of her husband. He's paralyzed from the waist down, you know? It's so sad…. I think she just wants tranquility."

_So the other man he had seen at that house had not been her husband._ "Perhaps so," he dramatically replied. "Perhaps we are both destined never to share our gifts with others."

Anne rested a hand on his shoulder. "I wish you'd consider music, Erik. Without her. You're so talented."

"No. It is best I leave now. I will only have bad memories if I stay."

Anne started to speak, but her cell phone rang. She wearily took it out of her pocket and stared at the screen. "Oh. It's Meg."

"Ah. Little Meg. You must take care of her."

"Hi, dear," Anne answered. A pause. "Yes, I know it's late. I'm just…cleaning up at the children's hospital. You know me; I always lose track of the time. Yes. I'll be home soon. You get to bed. Love you."

"I will go now," he told Anne after she hung up. "I will leave soon and forget this matter. Forgive Erik. I do apologize for damaging your friendship."

"Well, you shouldn't forget music," she replied.

"No. It is not for me. Nothing is. Except darkness."

"Oh, Erik."

He left her alone with that statement. Anne would put in a positive word for him with the girl—or at least not a negative one. He wouldn't appear to Anne any longer; it was time to take this into his own hands.

Women were generally vain creatures.

And a weak child like Christine…well…she was an easier target than the drug lord who had been handcuffed to his own headboard. Apparently, the man's mistress was fond of bondage.

The little bird would sing; it was the only way out of her cage.

* * *

"You look…kind of strange this morning," said Raoul, staring up at her from his bed. His face nearly matched the white pillowcase. The tan he'd gotten during their last trip to the beach had disappeared.

"Just tired," she replied, playing with a loose string on her capris. The previous evening, after clinging to her father and then watching television with him in the den, she'd slept in her old bedroom. Unpleasant but foggy dreams had swirled in her mind—accompanied by that…man's voice. It all still seemed unreal. She hadn't told anyone about it, either.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She attempted a smile and rubbed his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Same," he replied.

"Is the therapy helping yet?"

"I don't know. I haven't done too much. My mom thinks it's too soon."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Well, I hope she's not stopping you from healing faster. God, that'd be terrible."

Raoul sighed. "I know."

"She's so…." Christine clenched her jaw. "She tries to control everything we both do. I couldn't stand it if she was making you even sicker."

"I know it's rough for you. I don't like how she treats you. But…if it weren't for my mother, you'd be in charge of taking care of me. And that'd be even worse."

"I'm happy to take care of you," she replied. "I wish you'd let me do more."

"You do enough."

"I hardly do anything," she retorted. "I feel so…helpless."

_It's so simple. Don't you understand that? Don't you understand what you could be?_

Christine shuddered.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Raoul. "You have this weird expression on your face. Did my mom say something especially nasty to you?"

"No. Like I said, just tired." She'd never really lied to her husband before. Christine was still too confused to put what had happened into words. Plus, she didn't want to worry him over…whatever that had been. She leaned down to give him a quick kiss. "I promise I'm fine."

"I should be taking care of you." The defeated expression returned to his face, the corners of his lips turning down slightly.

She scoffed. "I'm not a child that has to be watched over. No one has to take care of me."

"I know," he murmured. "But before I always felt like I could protect you if I had to…."

"We're both safe," she assured him with another kiss. "Just worry about getting better."

Honestly, she didn't even know the meaning of _safe_ anymore.

While she was watching television in Raoul's den later that day, some romantic comedy with the ditzy girl and the uptight guy, her cell phone rang. It was Anne. Christine hesitated before answering in a cautious voice. "Hello?"

"Christine? Oh, I'm so happy I got a hold of you. How are you?"

"I'm…fine."

"That's good. I wanted to ask you if you'd have lunch with me tomorrow. Anywhere you'd like. I…need to talk to you. I don't want what happened to damage our friendship."

It didn't take too much thought for her to agree to the meeting. In fact, a big part of her wanted to know what exactly had happened that night. It'd be nice to have some independent verification that she wasn't insane. "All right. That's fine. I'd like to see you, too."

"Wonderful. Where would you like to go?"

"That little deli was good. I wouldn't mind another chicken salad sandwich with raisins."

"I'll meet you there at noon," Anne stated with relief in her voice.

By the time Christine arrived at the deli, Anne was already sitting in a lonely red booth at the back of the room. Christine automatically glanced around in search of anything suspicious, but no one else was there besides an elderly couple.

Taking a deep breath, Christine set her purse down and slid into the seat, attempting to decipher Anne's expression. Her smile was tired, and her eyes were distant. They exchanged greetings and ordered lemonades, both of them glancing at their hands often.

"I want to apologize again," began Anne after the waitress was gone. "I truly never meant for that to happen. I had no idea you were coming that night."

"I know you didn't. It's…fine." Christine paused and nibbled on her lip. "So it was all real?"

"What?"

"Was there someone in that room with us? A man with a weird voice? Who played the piano? That was all…real, right?"

Anne sighed and poked at her drink with her straw. "Yes. I'm afraid it was."

Half of her was relieved that she wasn't insane. The other half was disturbed that those events had actually occurred. "So who was…that?"

The crow's feet near Anne's eyes became more visible—the strain on her facial muscles more evident. "He's someone I met a very long time ago. A former…well, a former friend. He's very intelligent and talented; well, you heard him play. I've been trying to set him on the straight and narrow concerning his…career, and he…visits me occasionally."

"He played like a professional," Christine agreed. "Better than most that I've heard. It was…it scared me. He confused me." Anne was silent, her mouth still in a straight line. "Why did he want to see me?"

"Oh, I don't know." Anne swallowed hard. "He's not used to interacting with others, and so he had a strange way of telling you that he liked your voice. And being a musician…well…. I don't know. I guess he just likes music." She was rambling now, and Christine was becoming even more confused. "So he appreciated your voice. And he knew I was friends with you. So he simply wanted to tell you that. And it's kind of like…well…."

"Like sharing a passion?" Christine finally offered.

"Exactly! Exactly." Anne rubbed her temples. "Anyway, he's leaving again. I hope you can forget the incident. I know it frightened you. He's not someone I would have introduced you to simply because he's so eccentric."

"It was…different. But, you know, as long as he's not dangerous and is your friend…it's okay. It just was kind of unreal at the time." In fact, the way Anne was describing him made Christine feel foolish for running away and into her father's arms that night. _Like a stupid little child._ Maybe the shadows and late hour had made everything seem scarier than it really was.

"Mm." Anne nodded. "Yes. Of course. He's just a bit different."

"He could play for money, though," Christine said after a moment. "I mean, he could play professionally."

"Yes, well…. I do tell him that. But it doesn't matter. He's leaving, and I probably won't see him for years. I hope you can forget the incident and focus on your own troubles. How are those books working?"

Christine blinked as the subject changed. "Oh. Well…Raoul refuses to look at them right now. He's being kind of stubborn about the therapy."

Anne nodded, the strange glint leaving her eyes. "Yes. I can imagine it's hard for him. Young men are often so active. I've met some who were severely disabled in the war, and you can just see the pain on their faces."

"Yeah. Sometimes I think it'd be better if his mother wasn't there telling him that he was too weak and tired. She makes everyone feel inferior. But I don't know how to escape. Raoul and I are dependent on his parents."

"I know, dear. It's such a difficult situation. I only hope that he does start healing and you two can get out of there."

"I'll be lucky if we're out in less than two years," she murmured. "He's going to need long-term medical care."

_You could be famous, you know. Financially secure. _

Christine watched the ice cubes melt in her drink, melt away like the security and certainty she'd once had. "Anne?" she nearly whispered.

"Yes?" Anne leaned into hear her.

"My voice. That man said you heard me sing, too. Was I…really good at all?"

Anne moved back again. Their food arrived, and the older woman was silent as the plates were placed in front of them. "Thank you," they both murmured.

"Anne?" Christine asked again.

"What? Oh." Anne hesitated. "I don't…. Yes, you were good. You're a talented girl."

"Oh. Good." She could tell that Anne was lying, and her heart fell.

_But what does it matter? You? A singing career? Because some weird guy told you so? _She chuckled out loud.

"What's so funny?" asked Anne with a confused smile.

"Nothing," she softly replied.

_Everything. _

They didn't talk about the man throughout the rest of the meal. Christine considered asking for a name, but Anne obviously wanted to avoid the topic. Christine left the deli feeling even more lost.

Even after Anne's reassuring words, the event lingered in the back of her subconscious. A paranoia still haunted her, and she often glanced over her shoulder while in public. The shadows outside her window seemed especially menacing at night.

But there was something else besides the fear. In the words of that man, there had been the possibility of…_escape_. Escape from that house and her mother-in-law. What if she could make enough to get both her and Raoul out of there? It was stupid to even consider it. For all she knew, he was some homeless guy that Anne was helping.

Still, it lingered.

No accompanist jobs opened over the next weeks, and she was left playing the piano for Raoul. Theresa once complained that the music had awoken her from a 'perfectly wonderful' nap, and Christine was scared of playing at the Chagny house too often after that. She spent her time at Raoul's bedside. When the therapists came, she would always try to encourage her husband, but Theresa's loud complaints usually drowned out her words.

The next week, she drove to the grocery store to pick up some items for her father. There were far too many carbs in the house and not nearly enough fruits and vegetables. On her way home, she decided to stop at the performance arts complex and see if any jobs had opened up. Heavens, she'd even take volunteer work.

Colorful fliers that announced tryouts were posted on a bulletin board. All of them were for actors and stage designers, though. No one needed a silly little accompanist. She sighed and miserably rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"_Christine."_

Her name was whispered into her ear, and she jumped. Christine rapidly glanced around the hallways for the source of the sound but saw no one. Her heart thudded in her chest.

"_Down the left hall and into the room on your right, Christine." _

Against her better instincts and half in a trance, she followed the directions and peeked into the room. It was a nearly empty, dark storage closet. And a pair of yellow eyes were situated next to a cardboard tree. "Oh, God," she whispered as her better instincts returned, putting a hand to her heart. She took a step backward.

"No. It is only me."

"I thought you had gone," she stuttered. "Anne said…."

"I wished to remain around music. You can understand that, can't you, Christine? You like music, don't you?"

"Yes." Her gaze fell to the nearest building exit. He seemed so different than what Anne described. Anne made him sound like a lonely man in need of a friend. But now that she saw him again, he _was_ intimidating. He was clearly over a foot taller than she was, and his posture was straight and confident. His head was tilted to the side, and, although his hat and the shadows made it impossible for her to see his face, she could tell he was studying her.

"And yet you refuse to sing." He stayed in one place, making no move to block her.

"I can't sing," she said. "I play the piano. Like I said." She took another step back. "And I should probably--"

"Do not lie, girl; that is very inconsiderate. You can sing. You simply will not." She didn't know how to respond, but he continued without a pause. "Your father. Your husband. They are ill?"

"That's…yes. No. I mean, they're…."

"Not in the best health. And you're caring for them. You are working so hard for others, aren't you? Just like Anne does. You both fight so hard."

"I can't talk about this. I don't even know you." She turned around to leave, trembling with the fear that he would prevent her from going.

And he did stop her. But only with words. "Well, let me make this easier for you. No one makes things simple for you, do they, Christine? I only want music. I want to share my music, and I want you to share your voice. Together, they will be sensational. And, unlike the others, I will give you something in return. Specifically, you'll make enough to support your poor husband for the rest of his life."

"I…can't. I don't know you." The idea was burning into her mind, though. But it was too good to be true. Too frightening. Too uncertain.

"Yes, but you heard me play. Did you find it amateurish? Perhaps you think I need more work? Do be honest, Christine. I am open to your constructive criticism."

"No! I mean, you're very good." she replied. "You could play professionally. But--"

"As could you. You could sing professionally."

Something suddenly came flying at her through the air, and she had no time to duck. With a gasp, she glanced downwards. The object was a butterfly, and it clung to the front of her shirt, right between her chest and stomach. _No._ It was a paper butterfly, shaped and colored like a black and yellow swallowtail. With a shaking hand, she plucked it off her clothing. "It's…."

"Advanced origami," he finished with a strange laugh.

"It's…pretty."

"Isn't it? But it is useful as well. Turn it over." She carefully did so. On the wings was a phone number, with three digits on the right wing and four digits on the left. "Call that when you are prepared to negotiate. I will not answer; it is not a direct line to me. But I will know you called."

She shook her head, squishing the butterfly in her fingers. "I won't. You're scaring me."

"I tend to do that," he replied. He gestured to the door. "But you were free to leave at any time. No one is holding you prisoner, are they now?"

"No," she whispered.

"Now let us keep this encounter between us. I will not seek you out again. This is the last of me, if you wish. But if you tell Anne, I will disappear and there will be no choice. I will search for some other talent with less emotional baggage. You see, Anne thinks you are fragile and helpless. She thinks you cannot handle what I have to offer you. She believes you will live your entire life with your husband and…mother-in-law." He paused. "That is sad, no?"

"I am not helpless," she stated, her voice shaking. "And I am not living there for the rest of my life!"

"Of course not. You make your own choices. And Anne does not understand that. She does not understand that music is your ticket out of the disaster that has become your life. Just as she does not understand why I fail at other…career choices. I need music. Just as you do, Christine."

Christine paused as curiosity got the better of her. "What…were your other careers?"

"I was a small business owner."

She swore there was humor in his voice. "Oh."

"Anyhow, that does not matter. Just like the state of your life is unimportant. Only music matters."

She shook her head. "I…have to go."

"Of course."

Finally, she left without him making any move to stop her. The first thing she did when she got to her father's house was stuff the butterfly in an old jewelry box that had once belonged to her mother. It sat there like an ax in front of a case of glass. She then put the groceries in the fridge and collapsed onto the old sofa. Her heart was racing, and she was still shaking. There was terror. There was exhilaration.

She nervously waited for him to appear again over the next week, debating whether to call the police if he did. This could be classified as stalking now. Still, she didn't tell anyone--not Raoul, not her father, and not even Anne. In fact, she was a little angry at Anne for thinking she was so 'helpess._' Did everyone think she was that pathetic? _

The man didn't show up again, though. The paper butterfly remained in her jewelry box, and her mind often went back to it. She thought about it as Theresa was frowning at her shorter skirt or telling her that she was leaving cookie crumbs on the carpet. And she thought about it as Raoul struggled through his therapy with his mother cooing to him as though he were a three-year-old.

Still, she was too afraid to call that number. It would be giving that strange man an invitation into her life. And then what?

She would have to save herself. Christine began to search the Internet for information on live-in caregivers and programs that could help her and Raoul. Surely, the government funded aid for people who couldn't afford it. Of course, the services would be less adequate than what Raoul was currently receiving. She didn't want that.

After finding the best but most affordable program that she could, Christine presented the printed documents to Raoul. Theresa was at some garden party and wouldn't be back for two hours.

"What is that?" asked Raoul, warily staring at the fliers. He probably still remembered the books.

"Ways we could get out," she explained. "Nursing and care services. Programs that could help us live on our own. Maybe we could start thinking about it."

"Well…yeah…maybe in several years," he softly replied.

She bit her lip, not wanting to say anything insensitive. "You think we should stay here for over a year?"

"Chris, I can't even sit up yet. How would we survive without my parents?"

She gestured to the papers. "There's a lot of help available for couples, love."

"You'd be spending over half the day taking care of me. We could hardly afford any care. Even once there's an insurance settlement, it'll only go so far. No. Not until things are a lot better. Not until I can at least dress myself, for God's sake."

Her hands dropped to her sides. "All right."

"Honey, if you need a vacation, tell me. I'll get my parents to send you somewhere nice for awhile. Both you and your dad, if you want. I'd completely understand."

"I don't need a vacation," she nearly snapped. "I want…. Never mind. Forget it. You're right."

Again, Christine's escape was her father's house. At least she could still make him healthy dinners and convince him to go on walks with her. At least she was somewhat useful.

"I'm making you a stir fry," she informed him upon entering the house. "With lots of veggies."

He was resting on the couch in front of the television, one arm over his stomach. He looked tired. "Honey, you don't have to--"

"Yes." Her eyes were watery. "Yes, I do."

After she had sliced the vegetables, Christine checked the microwave clock. It was still too early to start heating everything, which meant she had some time for the piano. Hearing her father watching a game, she put on the headphones and began to play. _I need music. Just as you do, Christine._ She played for at least two hours, losing herself in popular songs of the 1950s and 1960s. She finished with "Unchained Melody" and then sat there staring at the keys. After another second, she pulled the headphones off her head. In the living room, a commercial for dog food was playing.

"Hey, Dad?" she began so that he could hear her. "Something kind of weird happened to me." She swallowed. "Someone is maybe giving me this opportunity, but it's kind of scary. I don't know…. A part of me has to get out of this. I can't live with Theresa much longer, but I don't know what to do. " She paused. "But this person is strange…and I don't know….Maybe he can't even help me. But then what if he can?" She waited for a reply. "Dad? Do you think I should consider the opportunity…even if it's strange?"

Five seconds ticked by, and there was no response.

"Hey! Dad? Did you hear anything I said?" With an annoyed sigh, she hopped up from the bench and headed for the living area, wondering if maybe he'd gotten up to get a snack or use the bathroom. No. She could see one of his light-blue slippers sticking out. "Dad?" His cheek was leaning on the headrest, and his eyes were closed. She shook his shoulder when she arrived at the sofa. "Daddy?"

A commercial for coffee came on the screen. The smell of it always made her ill after that day.

It was far too late by the time she called 9-11.


	9. Chapter 9

Hey, guys. Sorry for the delay. I'm in the middle of another move and job transition, so…you know how that goes. I will try to get out another chapter fairly soon, as will I finish the "Amongst the Living" vignettes. It may take a couple of weeks, though.

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing and for her continuous friendship.

**Enjoy!!!**

He never opened his eyes. There was no last tearful goodbye or words exchanged between them. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was two minutes from gone, the faintest pulse fading away to nothing. They attempted to resuscitate him to no avail, the defibrillators only causing the body to violently twitch and then resume its motionless state. And she was standing against the wall with her hands covering her face, falling through a nonsensical nightmare.

One of the paramedics gently told her to call someone. Walking through a fog, she hesitated and then dialed Raoul. She wasn't able to speak, stuttering into the receiver.

"Honey? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I c-c-can't…I don't…."

The paramedic gently took the phone. "Hello? Are you a friend or relative of Christine Chagny?" A pause. "Okay, sir. I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your wife's father passed away, and she's alone at the house. If we can't get someone over here, we may take her in the ambulance. There's a chance of her going into shock."

The man handed the phone back to her, and she took it into a shaking hand. "Hello?" she mumbled.

"Oh my God. Honey, I'm so sorry. Jesus. Damn it. I should be there right now. Here. I'm going to send Phillip over. Stay right there. All right, honey? Can you wait for him?"

"Yeah."

"I'll stay on the phone with you until then. Sit down. Make sure someone gets you some water."

She sat down in an armchair but was unable to ask for a drink. Raoul spoke to her, but she barely heard him, numbly watching as the paramedics began to stow their equipment away.

"We've contacted the coroner. Have you made any arrangements with a funeral home?" one asked her.

"Yeah," she whispered. She walked over to her father's still form and stared down. A shaking hand travelled to his cold cheek and then abruptly pulled back. A loud sob escaped her throat, and she stepped backward, thereby slamming her leg into the coffee table. She didn't feel any pain. _No, no, no…._

A loud knock at the door. Someone opened it, and Phillip stepped inside. He glanced at her father and shook his head, inhaling sharply. She was vaguely aware of her brother-in-law hugging her and murmuring a few words of comfort. Someone handed her some papers to sign, and she wrote squiggly lines on the forms. Phillip carried on a five minute conversation with the paramedics and then reached for the phone.

Another knock at the door. Someone checked for a pulse and then jotted something on a chart. More forms. More conversations. And eventually several men entered with a large black bag on a stretcher.

"You don't have to watch," Phillip softly informed her. So she didn't. After giving her father one last desperate glance, Christine turned away with a cry and fell to her knees. As her father was finally taken away from her, Phillip lowered himself down and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "Here. We'll go back to my parents' house now, all right? I'll get you to Raoul, okay? Just take a deep breath. Try to calm down before you get sick." He spoke to her as though she were a child; she felt like one. "Take deep breaths. Otherwise, they're going to take you to the hospital."

She nodded and somehow managed to calm herself, the tears still falling down her cheeks. She didn't remember the drive or if any more words were exchanged. Once she was at the Chagny home, Christine walked into Raoul's room and collapsed beside him on the bed. After awkwardly twisting his body, he wrapped an arm around her and held her. Hours passed, and she stayed in that position, sometimes closing her eyes and fading into the darkness. Theresa must have entered at some point, but Christine never noticed. Maybe she went to sleep. Night blended into the next day.

When a nurse entered to take care of Raoul late the next morning, she raised her head. Her face was damp with hot tears and cold perspiration; momentary disorientation overtook her. Somehow she realized that she needed to leave so that the nurse could work. Christine heard Raoul tell her to come back in thirty minutes. She nodded and padded to the guest room where she'd been partially staying over the weeks. Now it would be her permanent home. Pain shot through her heart and stomach as she curled up on the made bed.

Henry softly opened the door at one point. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"No," she whispered.

For hours, she remained there, staring at the ceiling and walls between bouts of sobbing. Despite what Raoul had said, she needed to be alone for awhile. People were confusing, with their questions and stares. Her mind was still processing the cold, hard fact, and nothing else was making any sense.

At some point, she arose and drank a glass of water. Someone had left a ham sandwich and potato chips at her door, and she munched on a few of the bland chips. And then she cried some more. And then she slept. Finally, by the next day, some reason had returned to her.

She went to Raoul's room, still feeling as though there were concrete blocks attached to her feet.

"Honey, how are you?" he asked, motioning for her to sit beside him.

"All right…I guess," she replied, embracing him. "I just…can't believe it. I mean, I knew it was eventually going to happen, but I can't…." She choked.

"I know," he replied. "I'm so sorry, Chris. I didn't expect it this soon either."

"What am I going to do?" she softly asked into his shoulder.

"We'll take care of you," he replied. "Don't worry. You're not alone. We'll help you through this."

A bitter tasted formed in her mouth. _We'll _take care of you. Not: _I'll_ take care of you. Or: We'll take care of each other.

Of course it had to be like that. Raoul couldn't stand up and carry her out of this. No one could.

_Except maybe…the butterfly._

_No. That was wrong…scary._

Pushing the thought from her head, she kissed her husband goodbye and returned to the guestroom. After only a brief hesitation, Christine picked up her phone and dialed Anne's number, forgetting her earlier anger.

"Hello?" asked the gentle, nurturing voice.

"Anne?"

"Yes? Christine, dear, what's wrong?"

"He's gone," was all she could say before starting to sob again.

"What? Who's gone?"

"My dad," she choked out.

"Oh, Christine. I'm so, so sorry. Do you want me to come over there?"

She paused. "Yes. Please."

"I'll be there in thirty minutes."

"Thank you so much."

Christine took off her wrinkled clothes and threw on a t-shirt and jeans. She stuck her hair in a messy pony tail and then returned to Raoul's room. "I'm going out with Anne for a bit," she said. "I'll be back soon."

He nodded in understanding. "All right. Be careful, honey. Let her drive."

She watched from the window and then ran downstairs when the small white car pulled up beside the curb. It looked wonderfully out of place among the shiny and expensive vehicles throughout the neighborhood. Theresa watched her with a blank expression, but Christine ignored her. She raced outside across the perfectly clipped grass and climbed inside, finding the smells of life comforting. Anne embraced her awkwardly from the driver's seat. "Is there anywhere particular you want to go?" she asked.

Christine shrugged. "No. I just wanted to see you."

"Do you want to come over to my house for a bit?" she asked after a brief hesitation.

"Yeah. That's fine."

Anne drove forward and turned out of the expensive neighborhood, her eyes wandering over the enormous homes with almost curiosity. She sighed. "You've certainly been through a lot this last year. My goodness."

"I keep thinking it won't get worse," she replied, folding her arms into her chest.

"Maybe this is the darkness before the dawn."

"Mm."

Anne's house was tiny and located in a neighborhood that would have terrified both Raoul and her father. It looked like one of those places featured on real life police shows--where shouting men in loose white t-shirts were dragged out of their homes, thrown on the ground, and handcuffed. Christine didn't care at the moment, though. In fact, the neighborhood was less threatening than the balconies, pillars, and swimming pools. No one cared here.

"I know it's not much," said Anne, gesturing to the white house. "I've had some trouble holding a job over the years."

"It's fine," said Christine, climbing out of the car. "I think it's kind of cute."

Anne slid her key into the squeaky door, and they entered. Christine gazed around the kitchen and living room, and her eyes fell on a pretty teenager sitting beside the television. Anne's daughter. Meg was slender and with narrow features, her eyes and dark hair hinting at a touch of Eastern Asian. The girl stared back at her with guarded curiosity.

"This is Christine," said Anne. "And, Christine, this is my daughter, Meg."

"Hi," they murmured in unison.

"You girls can talk for a bit. I'm going to go make some tea and heat up some dinner rolls. I think Christine could use a bite to eat.

Christine didn't argue, knowing that the past few months had made her slightly gaunt. She took a seat on a worn sofa, and there was a brief silence.

"So….," began Meg. "I'm sorry about your dad. And your husband. That really sucks."

"Thanks," Christine softly replied. She absentmindedly played with one of the loose threads in the couch. "So you're a dancer? I think I've seen you. You're really good."

"Thanks." Meg's face lit up. "It keeps me going."

"Like the piano for me."

"Yup."

She paused. "Your mom has really been wonderful this whole time."

Meg's smile faded into a small frown, and she glanced away. "Yeah. She is."

The reaction puzzled Christine. Before she could say anything else, Anne returned with a plate of food. Meg stood. "I'll let you guys talk. I have homework. Nice to meet you, Christine." She jogged off to her room, and a door closed. Anne watched her daughter leave and shook her head. She then took a seat beside Christine and offered her the cup of tea.

"Do you have sugar?" Christine asked.

"Of course." Anne hopped up to retrieve it.

"Thank you." Christine took four of the packets and poured them into her tea, stirring the particles around with a spoon and watching the ripples.

"So how are you, dear? I know that's a silly question. But…are you managing to cope in some way?"

She took a shuddery breath. "I prepared for this. I knew he didn't have too many more years. But I…I always thought Raoul would get me through it. He was so strong and stable."

"And now he can't be your support."

"I know that sounds selfish," said Christine, her eyes welling up with tears. "It sounds like I was using Raoul as a shoulder to cry on. But I'm not. I love my husband. I've been with him forever. But he's always been the strong one, and I'm…."She put a hand over her mouth. "I'm so…weak."

"No, you're not. Don't ever think that. You've been through a lot. No one expects you to handle this all by yourself. It would be hard on anyone."

"Theresa does," she muttered.

"Oh, forget that silly woman."

"I can't! I live with her!" Christine shuddered and set down the cup of tea before she dropped it. "I'm going to be trapped. Me and Raoul at his parent's house. For years and years. There's no way out. I can't even escape to my father's house anymore."

"It won't be forever."

"How do I know that?"

"He'll get better," Anne insisted. "People heal. And, one day, you'll rise above all of this and be a stronger person for it. Remember the saying. What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger."

"I don't always believe that."

"Oh, Christine." Anne hugged her. "You'll get out of this. I promise."

"I miss him so much. My father was the only thing that seemed…good right now," Christine whispered. "He always listened to me. He's always been there…."

"I know. I know this is hard for you. But listen. You're welcome here whenever you want. Anytime you need to escape, just give me a call."

She shook her head. "I don't want to pester you and Meg."

"Never think you're doing that," Anne firmly replied. "You're always welcome."

"Thank you."

Christine remained there for part of the day, talking to Anne or just watching the Giry's television. There was something cozy about the home, sort of like her father's house. As evening approached, she didn't want to leave. And yet she couldn't stay there forever. That was the thing. She couldn't be the adopted daughter of Anne Giry.

Not when she was now the adopted child of Theresa Chagny.

* * *

Many of the funeral plans had been made over a year ago. Therefore, Christine wasn't forced to take care of every detail in her grief. She knew that he wanted a pine casket and the minister who always told jokes during his sermons. She knew which relatives and friends to call.

Her father had one sibling, an older sister who lived in Canada. They weren't close; her father often referred to her as a stuffy career woman, and Christine had only received the occasional birthday card from her as a child. Still, of course she would want to attend her only brother's funeral. Outside of that, there were a few cousins and some of his former work colleagues. There was his favorite butcher and barber. Anne and Meg were there. And, of course, Theresa, Henry, and Phillip attended.

Christine sat up front and numbly listened as the preacher spoke about her father's bright outlook on life. She'd been asked if she wanted to say a few words, but Christine was unable. The second she opened her mouth, she'd lose it. And that was the last thing she wanted people, particularly Theresa, to see.

The hardest part of the day was watching them lower the casket into the ground. She watched it fade away from her sight, watched him lost to her forever beneath the damp dirt. People murmured words of condolences. Theresa didn't say much except, "Well, he was a very nice man, and we'll certainly miss him."

Henry said, "He was one of the few men who seemed to appreciate the simple things in life. That's hard to find these days." Christine was still starting at the hole in the ground minutes after the casket had vanished. No one disturbed her for the next ten minutes. Theresa started to say something, but Henry shushed her. Finally, she turned to face them, indicating that she was ready to leave.

"I wish I could have been there, Chris," Raoul said when she came home and went to his room. "I'd have given anything to be there."

"I know." A numbness still hovered inside her. "But you're here now."

"Yeah. How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

He kissed the top of her head as they embraced. "We'll get through this."

"I know."

She eventually returned to her room but couldn't sleep, twisting beneath the covers in her mental discomfort. The ache wouldn't leave her stomach, and her throat was parched from crying. Finally, she climbed out of bed and headed into the hall to get a drink of water. In the distance, she could hear Theresa and Henry speaking in hushed voices on the first floor. Christine tiptoed down the hallway to listen.

"That girl is a disaster right now," said Theresa . Christine winced.

"Well, she has been through a lot," replied Henry.

"I _know_ that. But she already had her head in the clouds half the time, and now she's a mess. She's not going to be able to handle anything. She looks like a zombie."

"Just give her time," said Henry. "And, for the love of God, stop blaming Raoul's condition on her."

Theresa grunted. "He could have gone to one of the best universities in the country if not for her."

"It's not the girl's fault. Raoul made the decision to stay with her. She didn't force it on him."

"No, but she didn't help, clinging to him all the time. He threw away his future for a cute little blonde, and now his life is gone. And the only thing I can do is make sure he's comfortable."

"How is it her fault that he was in an accident?" Henry harshly asked.

"It's not," Theresa muttered. "But she thought he would make the big bucks and take care of her. And now she's in for a surprise. Now she's being forced to take care of him, and she can't deal."

"You think she married him for his money?"

"I think that was part of it. He was a good-lucking, rich young man. She was this poor little thing. Of course he was a good catch. I'm not saying she doesn't love him, but anyone can see he was her ticket out."

Henry sighed. "Well, it is as it is now."

"You're right," said Theresa. "It is. They're both under our care like a couple of helpless children. Of course, they're both welcome. Raoul loves her. But that doesn't mean she gets to run about the town spending our money at all hours of the evening. She'll be a good wife and respect us. They're under our roof, and they'll obey our rules."

"Do as you want. I'm going to bed."

With a hand over her mouth and tears streaming down her cheeks, Christine ran down the hall and back to her room. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed into her pillow, the cruel words circling in her mind. And maybe some of them were true. She was a pathetic child who couldn't take care of anyone! She couldn't even keep her father alive! She'd _failed _him. And now she was failing Raoul. He was completely at the mercy of his overbearing mother.

_And, unlike the others, I will give you something in return. Specifically, you'll make enough to support your poor husband for the rest of his life._

The butterfly was still waiting, untouched in the jewelry box.

During the early morning hours, she climbed out of bed and snuck through the house to keep from waking anyone. An ache of despair turned to one of apprehension and uncertainty. She drove to her father's house and unlocked the door as the sun began to rise over the horizon.

The dark silence was chilling. She could still smell his aftershave, coffee, and the scents of their former life. Fresh tears formed in her eyes as she walked to her bedroom and turned on a light. Slowly, she opened the box and gently removed the piece of paper. It was light and gentle in her hands.

With a swallow, she turned the butterfly over to see the number and picked up the cordless phone. The line hadn't been disconnected yet, a hollow _beep_ on the other end. She hesitated; somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew all of this wasn't entirely right. That man…there was something unsettling about him. And yet….

She dialed and held her breath as it rang two times. An automated woman's voice answered. "You have reached the voice mail box of John Johnson. Please leave your message after the tone." _Beep. _

"I…" Christine began. What was she supposed to say? "It's me. You said to….I need…to…see you. I need---"

"Thank you for your message," interrupted the woman. There was a click and then a dial tone.

Christine stood with the receiver still up to her ear, mouth hanging open.

Was it all a joke? Horror flooded her. What if it had been a cruel prank?

Then again, what did she expect? The shadow man to suddenly jump out of her closet? She would have to search for him.

Or maybe he _would_ find her first.

* * *

_He _had been alarmed upon first learning of the death of the girl's father, fearing it might push her beyond a breaking point. He could handle a wilting flower but not a dead one.

Over the days following the event, he kept an eye on her. Her shoulders were drooped, and her face was scrunched with misery. She was pale, and her blue eyes were clouded. Still, she wasn't sitting in a corner rocking back and forth. That was a good sign.

Every other night, he checked the number he had given her, even while knowing that her grieving period would likely delay any phone call. People tended to go through a thousand rituals when it came to death. And now he would be forced to wait several annoying months for her to get it all back together. Perhaps he _should_ hack a computer or two during his spare time.

Or not. He checked the message one night, impatiently waiting through the annoying robotic voice. And then he heard: "I…. It's me. You said to…. I need…to…see you. I need--" _Click._

His lips slowly curled upward. Perhaps the death of her father had been a catalyst rather than an impediment. She had called him! He felt his heart give a little excited jump. He listened to the message a second time, her timid little voice calling out to him…_needing him_. A rush of energy surged through his bloodstream.

He immediately began to arrange pieces for her to sing. It was difficult to say whether she would lean toward Broadway or perhaps a sort of pop opera. He couldn't picture her in an actual opera, but perhaps time would tell. Whatever she did, he would see to it that she would be brilliant. This would be his grandest endeavor ever.

Before he plunged into his new project, though, it was time to tie up a loose end. Specifically, he tied a knot at the end of a piece of rope so that it formed a noose. Nadir Khan had become a bit of a pest, and it was time to end the game.

He'd managed to track Mr. Khan to a small hotel suite on the outskirts of Miami. It was a lackluster place with a two story brick building and elderly tourists milling about the parking lot with their decrepit pets. While Mr. Khan was out one evening, he briefly broke into the room and took a glance around.

There were no signs that Nadir was working with anyone else. In fact, the place resembled a bachelor's abode. There were several newspapers splayed out across a table along with a stale cinnamon roll and empty Styrofoam cup. A pillow and blanket rested on the couch, but the bed was still made. The garbage contained an empty pizza box and soda bottle. _He_ shook his head. Nadir severely needed housekeeping services.

It was still not obvious what his old accomplice's intentions were, but _he_ was not waiting forever to find out. He needed to focus all his attention on his new pet songbird. And Mr. Khan was simply being annoying.

The next evening, he made a second visit, this time with the intention of confronting Nadir directly. He took the noose along with several containers of a unique poison from Mexico. Supposedly, the substance blended into the bodily systems, and the authorities still had a difficult time detecting it. He also took a handgun. It had never been his weapon of choice, but it was always best to be prepared for a variety of situations.

Hearing only the television on the other side, _he_ silently cracked open the door. Seeing no one, he crept back into the room. Nadir was asleep on the sofa, an empty ceramic mug resting on his rising and falling stomach. A soft snore emerged from between his lips. An infomercial was on television, advertising a ridiculous device to tone thigh muscles. A moth was flitting around near the lamp.

He forced himself not to laugh at the spectacle, standing over Nadir with his arms folded. He made a soft but audible noise at the back of his throat. Nadir opened his eyes and raised his head, the mug tumbling off his stomach. Before Mr. Khan could make a sound, _he_ had one hand wrapped around his mouth and one hand wrapped around his neck.

"Nadir! Such a long time!" he whispered into his ear.

Mr. Khan choked and attempted to speak.

"Are you enjoying following me? I am, Nadir. I enjoy cat and mouse games as much as anyone. But I think you might have lost this one." He moved his hands slightly to allow Nadir to speak.

"Erik! It's you! I promise I don't mean you any harm."

"Of course you would say that now," he replied. "Unless you are suicidal. Are you suicidal, Nadir?"

"No. Erik, I've been wanting to talk to you. I've been looking for you."

"Have you now? And did you plan on having the rest of the police force come, too?"

"No. I promise. No one else knows. They think I'm on vacation." He paused. "A long vacation. I…was promoted."

"So I heard," he replied. He finally removed his hands altogether, knowing he could still make the fastest move. He slowly took a seat on the sofa, eyeing Nadir…searching his eyes and body language for any lies.

Nadir rubbed his neck and took several deep breaths. "I had to pull a few strings for the position."

"You had to pull a few strings for every position, you nitwit." His eyes narrowed. "What? Did you promise to arrest me if you were hired?"

"No," he replied. "Of course not. No one ever figured out the connection between us, and I had no intention of telling them."

"So what is it then?"

"Would you like something to drink?" he stalled.

"No. Now explain why the hell you are following me."

Nadir glanced down as though embarrassed. "There're a lot of criminals in the city, specifically my precinct. I promised to bring order. I swore I would get rid of all the riffraff and corruption. Even our mayor is scum."

"And that is good and well for you, Nadir. But you are avoiding my question, and that annoys me."

"Erik?" he began like a school boy asking his crush on a first date.

"Yes?" _He_ waited, knowing this was going to be…entertaining.

"I need your help. You're excellent at infiltrating these people. Like last time. We made one hell of a team, and that's the last time I've ever been able to do something of that magnitude. That's the last time I ever received that sort of recognition. If I don't start making an impact, I'm going to lose everything. And the entire city is going to go to hell. Our crime rate is already three times over the national average, and…I think you're my last hope."

_He_ paused.

One second.

Two seconds.

And then he began to laugh. Nadir lurched back at the sound.

After about fifteen seconds, he was able to speak again. "You want me to be the…the super hero for your city? Or your sidekick? That is it? You want me to catch all your criminals so you look better?" He continued to chuckle. "You, my friend, are the most hilarious acquaintance I have ever met. I am glad I did not kill you. I rather needed that." He had, too. Christine had been making him tense.

Nadir huffed. "I would compensate you. Well."

"Are you planning to blackmail me into this?" he asked, leaning back.

"No. I wouldn't do that."

"So you're only bribing me." His chuckles faded. "A corrupt cop is requesting a wanted criminal to help him keep crime levels low. That is delightful, Nadir. Utterly excellent."

"I know." Nadir lowered his head in shame. "I know it all sounds…bad. But it has good intentions behind it. We were good together."

"Despite the hilarity of your request, I will have to pass you up. I have a new project and little time for your games."

"Really? What sort of project?"

"That is none of your business."

Nadir leaned forward. "Erik, I'm desperate. What do you want? Money? Protection?"

"Nothing. I…." _He_ paused. He had a police captain begging him for help; perhaps that was not something to easily pass up. "Perhaps we will see. Perhaps I will need the occasional favor over the next months."

Nadir hesitated, caution overcoming some of the desperation in his eyes. "What sort of favor?"

"As though I would tell you that." He chuckled. "We will keep in touch, no?"

Nadir rapidly nodded. "Yes. Right. Is there a number where I can reach you?"

"Yes. One-eight-hundred-I'm an idiot." He stood. "As though I would give you any information to lead you directly to me."

"I swear I mean you no harm."

"Yes, and corrupt cops tend to rank below used car salesmen in the arena of trust, Nadir. And they tend to have even shorter life spans. No. I will find you if I need you. You can decide whether you wish to stick around or return to your dying city."

Nadir pressed on. "You could do a lot of good. You always found your targets, and it was clean. You never killed a child. You never…injured a woman. You just did what you had to. And most of those bastards deserved what they got."

"I advise you to watch your step," he warned, disliking that form of praise.

"Erik, you're my last chance at not being a complete failure."

"No. I'm your last chance at ensuring that everyone else does not know you're a complete failure. Goodnight, Nadir." He paused. "And keep away from Anne Giry. You have found me; you do not need to interrogate the woman about my location. If I discover otherwise, I will be irritated."

"That is…fair."

_He_ left in a blur, wondering whether to trust his old accomplice. There were no symptoms of lying. And, really, it made sense. Nadir had always been unconfident and somewhat incompetent. Really, the man never should have become a police officer. His ethical code was odd. Hell, Nadir was odd.

He'd think about it later. Mr. Khan was not an immediate threat, and it was now time to check on his new project. The last thing he needed was his little bird getting herself injured or lost.

First, he searched for her near the vile mansion home and noticed her car was missing from its spot in the driveway. _Wonderful._ She was driving around in the dark somewhere all by herself, probably wearing that gaudy ring and not locking her car doors. Perhaps he should put a tracking device on her.

And then another thought occurred to him. She had called him days ago. So…perhaps….

He drove to the performance arts complex. Her car was parked in the usual lot.

She'd called, and now she was looking for him. He should have expected it and yet….

And yet the idea of that girl actually waiting somewhere for him was a bit befuddling. Perhaps at that second he realized that his new project was going to be more complicated than anticipated. He hesitated and trailed his bony hands down the leather steering wheel.

Well, he could not disappoint her now, could he?


	10. Chapter 10

Hi, everyone. I finally got this chapter out, and I hope you all enjoy it. Especially the E/C.

A big thanks to everyone who continues to stay with me, including my beta, _MadLizzy._

**Enjoy!!!**

Over the last few nights since the phone call, Christine had spent several hours in the dark, sitting on the cold tiles of the practice room with her arms folded around her knees, waiting….

It was the only place she could think to find him. "What were you thinking?" she angrily whispered to herself. How could she have fallen for this? Theresa was right; she was nothing but a helpless child.

She stood, ready to return to the Chagny home. Theresa would scowl at her as she walked in the door. _And just where have you been at such a late hour? Why weren't you with your husband? _Just thinking about her mother-in-law's high-pitched voice made Christine want to find a park bench or bus stop to claim for the night. Of course, there was always the home that she and Raoul had shared. But it seemed so quiet and lonely and....

"_Christine…." _

She started at the sound of her name, heart pounding in terror and them calming only slightly as she recognized the voice. Climbing up from the cold floor, she desperately searched the room until she saw the tall silhouette staring at her from the farthest corner.

"You came," she managed to whisper.

"You dialed the butterfly." His voice was calm and unsurprised.

"I did."

"Why?"

"I…."She folded her arms across her chest as her fear returned, knowing she was now responsible for this situation. "I wanted to see if you really meant it. I want to make enough to get me and my husband out of that house. I want to get him the best treatment in the world; I don't care if we have to move to Europe. I want…him to walk again. I want him to be happy." She looked into the yellow eyes. "Can you help me?"

"Once we are finished, you can have or do whatever you want," he replied as though she'd just asked for a new washer and dryer. "The world will be yours."

"And he'll be healed?"

"Yes, yes. He can go all over the world seeing specialists. And they will work their miracles, and all will be fine. If you cooperate, perhaps I can even…pull strings for you here and there. How is that?"

She folded her hands together as though in prayer; his words were said in the most beautiful voice. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes. Thank you. We'll be free and happy again."

"Of course."

"If I just had some help, I know I could take care of him without Theresa," she continued, almost talking to herself now.

"And this is all very heartwarming. But we will get nowhere unless we set some rules first."

"Rules?"

"Yes. First, as was already made clear, no telling anyone of this. We want your assets to remain a secret until your voice is fully developed."

"Not even Anne?" she asked. Anne Giry was still one of the only reasons she felt somewhat safe with this man.

"No. At least not now. If she does discover the arrangement, I will deal with it then. I have known her for many years, and she is entirely predictable."

"Oh…."

"Secondly, Christine, I care about perfection and triumph and watching the world flock to your feet." The volume of his voice increased with excitement. "And I care about the financial rewards that will come about as the result of our combined talents. Ultimately, we have the same goals. But I do _not_ care about what occurs after you depart from these sessions. And, while I understand that you are mourning the death of your father, I do not care to know about the lives of you and your husband."

Her feelings were suddenly hurt. "But I--"

"Honestly, do you really think we would make progress with you coming in here and having a therapy session? Come see Christine Chagny! She can sob into the microphone for twenty-four hours straight. Yes! That will sell tickets. That will save your husband."

"All right. Fine. I won't talk about anything." She sniffed and gathered herself together. "This isn't a joke, right? You mean all of this. You'll really make me that good?"

"Yes, yes. There are few things I have undertaken where I have not been successful. You might call me an overachiever, no? Now let's begin. First, which direction do you envision for yourself? Are you an actress, too? Would you enjoy theatre? Or would you prefer to focus on vocals alone? We could look to recordings and concerts? Or both?"

"I don't know," she replied, digging the toe of her leather sandal into the floor. "I've never envisioned anything like that. I've never even thought about this."

"Fine," he replied with disdain. "I will create your vision for you. I will do everything."

She frowned and stepped backward. "I just…how am I supposed to know what I want to do? This was your idea."

He laughed at her anger, and it echoed—a tenor vibration that was both pleasing and disturbing. "It was, wasn't it? Yes. All _my _idea. You're quite right. I will handle it. Now sing something for me. Anything you like."

"Don't I have to warm up first?" She was beginning to question his credentials, her heart falling again as she wondered if this was too good to be true. Oh, but she needed to believe in something.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "So you aren't completely ignorant to vocal training?"

"Well, I've watched the kids practice a lot," she replied.

"Yes. Well, let us hope that you have not picked up any of their other habits as well." Before she could come up with any sort of retort, he continued. "Yes. We will warm up." He sat at the piano in the corner and hit middle C, letting the note reverberate in the silence. She straightened her back and relaxed, planting her feet at the width of her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and attempted to relax her jaw and facial muscles. She opened her eyes; he was staring at her. "You have had lessons before. At some point."

"I haven't," she weakly protested, her posture quickly slumping.

"You have. Rule number three. Do not lie to me concerning your musical ability. Every time you lie to me, the less I do to help you. "

Her lip trembled. "Fine. I had two years worth of lessons when I was fourteen. Through my school."

"Why did you quit?"

"It doesn't matter_." It was completely humiliating…._

"But it does," he insisted. "We do not want you to quit again. Not on your poor husband who needs you. What if you give up on him?"

"I would never do that!" she exclaimed, feeling tears form in her eyes. "I won't quit on him!"

"Fine, fine. Do not go into hysterics. We will discuss this later when you are not five seconds from hyperventilating. In fact, let us concentrate on your breathing now."

He was utterly unsympathetic and rude. And if he wasn't helping her…if he wasn't saving her from Theresa Chagny and offering her the only key to freedom…she might have run out the door right then. But there _was _this aura of power to him—this almost invincibility that told her he could get anything done.

They went through lip rolls, vowel pronunciation exercises, and various practice scales that tested her range and ability to accurately hit notes. She remembered similar exercises from her two years of lessons, and he seemed to know exactly what was needed. At times, he seemed to understand her voice better than she did. Some of the tension finally faded at this time—when music (and not herself) was the point of focus.

Finally, he said, "Now I simply wish you to sing something. Any song. You will be comfortable singing in my presence."

"Uh…." After a brief hesitation, she awkwardly began the same song she'd practiced with Marissa for _Cinderella_. Given her nervous state, it was the only one she could remember. By the middle of the song, though, even she knew that she was off key and…completely terrible. Her heart, mind, and voice just weren't into the music, and she wondered if this project was doomed before it even started.

He stared at her as she finished, head tilted to the side. She prepared herself for a storm of insults, but he merely asked, "What else do you know?"

"Nothing, really. I mean, not by memory."

Before she could blink, there were suddenly several papers lying at her feet. Startled at how fast he'd slid them to her, she shakily bent down and picked them up. They were songs, two from Broadway and one sixties ballad. "Memorize the words at least," he said.

"I'm a piano player," she explained and then felt stupid because it wasn't much of an explanation.

"Yes. A very mediocre one."

"You…." He was horrible. She wanted to run away from him and lock herself in her room and…just be miserable forever.

She stayed.

"Let us try one more thing before you leave," he said. "I will play a melody. Just hum along with it . Or perhaps "oh" along with it. Either way is fine. But do not simply stand there." He began, and she obeyed.

It was slow at first and then began to speed up, a circular rotation between seven notes. He began to move up the piano, changing the pattern only slightly and into a minor key. She concentrated to keep from making a mistake; nothing she'd ever done in a previous lesson was quite similar to it.

Suddenly, she and her voice were locked into the repetitive pattern, nearly hypnotized by it. The melody made colors and shapes form in her mind…and then memories. She wasn't even sure if she was still singing. Suddenly, Christine saw her father as clearly in her head as though she were staring right at him. He smiled behind his beard and waved at her. With a gasping sob, she fell to her knees and placed a hand up to her mouth. The visions faded.

The shadow stopped playing the piano, stood, and stared down at her. "There. You may go now," he said in a soft voice. "I have what I want. The potential is there; I was correct."

A tear streamed down her cheek; her hands were trembling. "But…I come back, right?"

"Yes. We are very far from finished. Even I cannot work a miracle in one night. You will come back at the same time on Tuesday. Two times per week is sufficient for now. And we will have another…interesting evening."

"Okay," she whispered. Christine stood. After grabbing her purse, she took a step toward the door, exhausted and eager to get away.

"And Christine?"

"Yes?" She warily turned toward him.

"If you continue to act in such a manner, they will attempt to put you on antidepressants. Refuse them. I would rather you be miserable than have your mind warped by pills."

"All right. I don't want them anyway."

She stared at him another second before leaving. He was sitting on the bench and indifferently staring back at her with his hands on the piano. Was he aware of what he'd just done to her mind? She kind of hated him. And yet he also seemed like some giant, black…genie.

Upon arriving at the Chagny home, Christine ignored Theresa's glare and ran up the stairs to Raoul's room. Raoul blinked in surprise as she fell down onto his bed and gently buried her face into his shoulder. He was warm, real, and tangible--a relief after the shadow man. And Raoul _liked_ her piano playing. In fact, her husband never criticized her…never told her to "do better." A part of her didn't want to return to that practice room, didn't want to be frightened and judged. "Well, you look…different tonight," he softly said. "What's up? Were you at a performance?"

"I…. Not exactly. I just have a lot to think about."

"Did you find another job that makes you happy?"

"Yeah. Sort of."

"That's great!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah."

"I've hated seeing you so upset these last weeks. Like I said, if you ever want a vacation, I'll get my dad to send you anywhere."

"I'm staying here with you," she firmly replied. She wasn't about to give Theresa even more ammunition. Closing her eyes, Christine pretended they were on some beautiful sunny resort where Raoul could heal and receive the best available treatment—where his mother wasn't there to criticize.

"I like you here," he murmured.

Several days later, Raoul received one of his regular visits from the team of physical therapists. Usually, two of them came at least once per week to check his progress. She would watch as they worked with him, learning the different ways they stretched out and massaged his muscles. She also jotted down the exercises they wanted him to begin on his own. Raoul always looked slightly miserable during the sessions, but he did put some effort into them.

On that particular afternoon, he was asked to lift his arms above his head and do various stretches involving his upper torso, twisting and using his upper body to roll himself to each side. Apart from Theresa's grunts of displeasure, that part went well. One of the therapists then asked if Raoul was able to pull himself up to a near sitting position, even for short periods of time or using the metal grab bar that was now hanging from the ceiling. Raoul muttered something inaudible in reply.

"We're taking it slowly," Theresa explained with a sniff.

The therapist frowned. "Well, that should be one of our first major goals. Go ahead and give it a try right now. Just lift yourself to a sitting position against the pillows. Use whatever you need for support and take your time." Raoul nodded.

"Now that's too much strain," stated Theresa, watching him struggle, his knuckles turning white around the silver bar.

"You can do it," said Christine, her hands clasped.

"There will have to be some more strenuous work if we want improvement," said the therapist. "It's impossible for him to get better without occasional discomfort."

"I just hope you know what you're doing," snapped Theresa.

Beads of sweat formed on Raoul's pale forehead as he attempted to pull himself upwards. Although the paralysis mainly affected his legs, parts of his upper body were still weakened from both the accident and months of bed rest. Christine winced at the distorted expression on his face. "I know you can do it," she murmured.

"That's enough of this!" exclaimed Theresa as Raoul released a gasp. "He's going to injure himself all over again! What the hell is wrong with you people?"

"We are just trying to make prog--" began the therapist.

"This is not progress! It's torture!"

"Shut up!" Raoul hoarsely yelled at his mother, finally releasing the bar and falling back onto his pillow. "Jesus! Just shut the hell up for once!" A choked sob escaped the back of his throat, and he placed both hands over his face, shoulders heaving. Christine squeezed his arm, her heart aching.

"Now look how you've upset him," said Theresa, oblivious to the fact that he'd screamed at her. The therapist shook his head and stepped backward.

"I think that's enough for today," Raoul stated, now staring at Christine's stomach as though it were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. "I'm beat."

"Possibly so," replied the therapist. "Maybe this was too much for one day. We'll be back in a week. Continue the stretches and exercises. Don't strain yourself, but remember that the stronger we can make the muscles above your waist, the more independence you'll have in the coming years."

"Sure," he muttered.

The therapists departed, leaving behind various pamphlets and paperwork. Christine stored all of them in a dark purple folder she'd began keeping; she'd absentmindedly doodled little flowers on the front of it during a previous therapy session. Theresa finally left the room, and she and Raoul were alone. Outside, a light rain began to fall, gentling pattering against the window. Clouds cast shadows over the walls and ceiling.

"Are you okay?" she softly asked.

"Yeah. Sorry about that. I…snapped for a moment."

"Don't be sorry. You had a right to--"

"Let's just forget about it. Forget I did it." Christine took a seat beside him and ran a hand through his soft hair, the bitter taste of helplessness beginning to seep into her mouth again. Raoul finally looked into her eyes. "It's really sinking in. Nothing is ever going to be the same, is it?"

"It might be…."

"If we have kids, I won't be able to pick them up and carry them on my shoulders. What if they have to have me like this? I used to jog about three miles a day, for God's sake." He shook his head, and a wry chuckled escaped his chapped lips. "I guess if we do have kids, we'll have my mom to babysit, huh? Maybe she'd like that; maybe it'd get her to leave us alone."

The thought of Theresa looming over her while she raised children…. Christine shuddered.

"We are going to find a way," she whispered. "I promise. We're going to have our own lives."

"Thank God you're such an optimist. I try to be. But…." He sighed. "I think you're one of the reasons I get through each day."

"Oh, Raoul…." His faith was in her. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, knowing she couldn't let him down. _Not like she'd let her father down…._ "We'll be fine."

Whatever reservations she had about returning to that practice room were gone. She would take the harsh criticism.

And she would ignore the occasional shiver that still ran down her spine.

* * *

_He_ feared she wouldn't return for the second lesson. The girl was damned emotional. Every time he spoke, she appeared five seconds from bursting into tears. Frankly, he didn't wish to be reminded that she was a human being with feelings and all that other nonsense that plagued women. He wanted his project and her voice and the perfect vision in his mind. Instead, he had a quivering child who had to be nearly hypnotized into singing.

To his delight and relief, though, Christine entered with her head held higher and dry eyes. Her clothes weren't wrinkled, and her hair was combed into a pony tail. He admired her for a moment as she strode into the room, staring downward from her blue eyes to her slender form to her polished pink toe nails. This appeared slightly more promising.

"Good evening," he stated from his familiar spot. He stayed in the shadows, knowing that her getting a full view of him would make the girl even more of a wreck.

"Hi," she softly replied, setting down her purse.

"You returned."

"Yep. I'm ready." She tilted her chin upward in what appeared to be forced confidence. Her hands were still shaking. "I memorized the words in the songs you gave me and played them on the piano."

"What a good student who does her homework," he replied, his thin lips curving upward in amusement. "Let us begin." He wanted to avoid conversation and dive right into the lesson.

They went through the same warm-ups and exercises, and she sang with more energy. Despite her newfound ambition, though, there was still something lacking. Technical problems still existed, of course. She would often drift off key. But he was much more concerned with something that was difficult to define. She was working so hard to reach her personal goals that she didn't focus on the music. She wasn't singing for herself. _Well, of course she wouldn't. Like Anne, she only lived for others. _"I want you to forget all else in your life," he told her. "Forget your problems. Forget your mother-in-law. Forget your husband and your--"

"But I'm using Raoul as my motivator," she interrupted. "I read on the Internet that if you're trying to do something difficult, you should focus on your motivator."

"Yes, well I read on the Internet that the apocalypse was due to arrive last Tuesday at four p.m. Eastern time. And I was sorely disappointed." She tilted her head in confusion; he was obviously going to have to alter his humor if he ever wanted to earn a laugh. "You are not even focusing."

"Yes, I am!" she exclaimed, hands clenching at her sides. "I'm trying the best that I can! I'm doing everything you want! I told you I wasn't good!"

He'd once climbed up to a sixth floor window with a time bomb in the course of thirty seconds. Looking back, that had been relatively easy.

He sat at the piano and began playing the second movement of Beethoven's _Sonata Pathétique_. The slow melody calmed her—or at least she stopped whining. When he was finished, he glanced at her. Christine was now sitting cross-legged on the floor with her chin in her hands, her eyes slightly glazed over. "You play so beautifully," she murmured. "I'll never be that good at anything. Why do you even need me?"

He began playing the third movement of the sonata while replying to her. "Because I am not otherwise crafted for fame. I am not someone who should ever be on the cover of a magazine." _Except perhaps a tabloid—Living Corpse Spotted in Central Park Alongside Bigfoot._ "But my music with your voice and face," he continued. "_That_ is why we will succeed. I have begun writing several original pieces for you. I think you will enjoy them. It will be perfection—irresistible to any audience. Do you understand?"

"I…think so."

"But you must snap out of this. I am investing valuable time into you. I do not care why you are doing this. But if you are only pretending to care, you must become a better actress." He finished the third movement.

"I care," he thought he heard her say.

When she sang afterwards, there was improvement. She wasn't a depressed doll nor did she look like someone was forcing her to lift a boulder. Her eyes held deep concentration. Even if it was far from perfect, she was singing for herself.

"Better," he said at the end.

"I'm shaky sometimes."

"Yes, well the fact that you realize that is relief enough. But we are done for tonight."

"Okay." She reached down and picked up her purse. A twenty dollar bill was sticking out of the corner, stuck between the edge and the zipper.

"Girl, do you wish to be robbed?" he asked, gesturing to the money with his shoulder. When he was a sixteen year old pickpocket, the sight would have completely enthralled him.

"Oh!" She quickly stuffed it back inside and zipped the purse up.

"And take care walking around at night with your ring on display."

"It's my wedding ring."

"Yes. And I am sure your husband would prefer a dead bride with a missing finger to a living one with her hands still intact?"

She shuddered. "Oh, that's just…terrible…."

Her shock amused him; she possessed an innocence that was rare in modern women. Her sheltered world had likely been peppered with picket fences, afternoon strolls through suburbia, and the occasional white collar crime. He would have to keep an eye on her or the music industry would eat her alive.

Still, it was going to be fun to watch her flourish. And he would know.

There had come a day in his life when he'd stopped walking around with his shoulders hunched, scurrying into various holes and corners like a diseased rat. He had realized his talents--realized that others should fear him and not the other way around. He still couldn't walk down the street in broad daylight without a million horrified stares. But he could always get what he needed…and wanted.

"You're going to have such fun," he stated.

"Fun?"

"Yes. Limousines. Adoring crowds…."

"Oh, I don't care about any of that. I just care about Raoul getting better."

He waved her away. "Fine. I will enjoy our triumph for you. You may continue to sulk."

"Hmph," she grunted. She started to turn and leave. "Oh! One quick question. Do you want me to call you John or Mr. Johnson?"

He was unable to hold back his laughter this time, thereby startling her. If he'd told her his name was Ignacio Hernandez the Third, she would have believed him. "Neither. I could never keep a straight face if you do that. It is not my name."

"Then what is your name?"

He played with her. "You could always call me Maestro."

"That's a little…strange."

"Isn't it?"

"What's your name?" she repeated.

"Erik," he replied.

"Erik," she repeated. "Is that really it?"

"Yes, that is it. And if you do not like it, pick something else. Hell, call me Mr. Johnson if it makes you happy." He glanced up and was somewhat alarmed to see that she'd taken several steps toward him. Quickly standing, he shooed her away with both hands. "Another rule," he began. "Keep your distance, both physically and conversationally. As I said, I do not care what you do when you leave. And you should not care about me. There is only music here."

"All right, Erik," she softly replied, taking three steps backward. "I think I understand. We're kind of like…business partners."

He'd had a 'business partner' before; the backstabbing traitor was dead. But maybe this needed to be simplified for her sake. "Yes. In a way."

"All right, then. Well, I'll see you on…?"

"Thursday."

"Right." She paused. "Well, goodbye." She left.

He sat in the silence for a few more minutes. And then he left to find a piano bar and a glass of Scotch whisky.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks to everyone for the awesome reviews. I'm so glad you're all enjoying the story, despite it being a bit different sometimes. I find it fun that some of you dislike this Erik and some of you love him. I can see both sides of it :)

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her help!

**Enjoy!!!**

Christine was determined to have Raoul sitting up by himself within a month. The sight of him lying in bed day after day, staring at the television with this indifferent glint in his once bright blue eyes, was beginning to drive her mad. He seemed to be all or nothing. He either wanted his old, active life back, or he wanted to be completely immobile and avoid facing the world.

After Theresa left to go shopping with her friends (Phillip referred to them as the 'gaggle'), she switched off the baseball game Raoul was watching and stood over him.

"Hey," he protested, jerking his head to look at her. "The Marlins just scored."

"Your mother isn't here." She gently smiled. "I thought we could work on your therapy."

"But…maybe after the game?"

"By then, your mom will be home."

""But…." He tapered off and then sighed. "Fine."

She was thankful that he wasn't going to force her into a long argument. "I thought it'd be great if we could get you sitting up yourself. Maybe we can start going places together again. There's no reason why we have to stop going out to dinner."

Raoul shrugged. "Someday. Going out in public...doesn't exactly sound fun right now. I'll be an annoying burden."

"No, you won't! How can you even think that?"

He shrugged again and muttered something she couldn't understand.

"We'll slowly work up to it. Even if we can go in your backyard, I'll be happy. We could sunbathe or something." He snorted. She tilted the pillows on his bed so that they supported his back. "Okay. Let's try this. Just let me know how and when you want me to help."

With a deep breath, Raoul took hold of the grab bar. The muscles in his face tensed as he again attempted to pull himself upward. His frown deepened as the task became more difficult than he probably would have liked. She almost felt guilty for making him unhappy that afternoon. Sometimes he seemed at peace when watching television, probably escaping into the images and sounds.

Grinding his teeth, he finally pulled himself up to an almost reclining position, his lower back the only part resting against the pillows. Reaching around, she put an arm around his torso to support him. "Almost," she said. "That was better. I think we can get this." She gently released him, and he lay back down. "Do you want to try it again?"

"Yeah. I guess."

He became a little better at it each time. They also went through some of the other stretches for a good half hour. When the front door slammed, he quickly fell back onto the pillow, and she jumped into the chair beside his bed. Raoul switched on the television.

"Is everything okay up there?" called Theresa.

"Yeah. Everything's fine," Raoul yelled back.

Christine put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"I brought giant frosted cookies from the mall! Do you want me to bring them up now?"

"No, thanks!" Raoul replied. "I'll have them later."

"All right, dear! I'll put them in the fridge."

They exchanged a brief grin. Raoul glanced at the television screen. "Nice. We're ahead by three runs now." He turned back to her. "Want to watch a movie tonight? Philip rented some of the new releases."

"I would. But it's…Thursday." She wrung her hands together.

"Oh yeah. You have your….What exactly do you have again?"

"Um. It's kind of like practice for performances. A development…workshop…thingy."

"Ah. Well, that's good."

Her husband didn't suspect a thing. Not that she was doing anything wrong. Outside of her promise to the shadow—or Erik not to tell anyone, she wasn't sure Raoul would understand this. Two nights of the week she was all alone in a dim room, singing for a man who was less than ordinary.

She had been feeling slightly better over the last few weeks. For once, Christine felt like she was being productive. She was beginning to understand what Erik wanted from her—that state of complete concentration where nothing but music mattered. When she lost focus, he'd still become especially rude. _I have heard screeching cats stay on key better than you do. _

If she did what he wanted, if she reached that place of near euphoric concentration, he was less brutal. _That was adequate. For now. _

She might have continued to hate him. But she _was _getting better. Long ago, Christine had been told that she could achieve a large vocal range and that she had a very pleasing timbre. As her lessons passed and they made their way through several songs, she was finally beginning to hear her potential. And so she continued to go to the lessons, convinced that this man could save her.

"Erik?" she began one night. They had been meeting for a little over a month now.

"Mhm?"

"Did you say you were writing your own pieces for me?"

"I did," he replied.

"When can I see them?"

"When you are able to sing them correctly," he stated. "If I hear you sing my songs wrong, I might have a stroke. And then where would you be?"

"Fine," she replied, rolling her eyes and turning to leave. His insults hurt a little less now; maybe she was getting used to them.

"Christine?"

She turned back around. "Yes?"

"Here is the newest piece. It's more advanced. But I think you're ready for it."

Bending over, she picked up the sheets of paper that were now lying at her feet. _Couldn't he hand them to her like a normal person?_ "All right. Thanks." Christine was halfway down the stairs when she realized he'd actually complimented her. A small smile formed on her lips. It was upsetting that he could control her emotions so much. Whenever he was pleased, though, it was like getting an A-plus on a test.

She continued to help Raoul with his therapy whenever Theresa was absent. Although he was somewhat despondent, he usually cooperated. Once in a while, he would tell her he didn't feel like it. Sometimes she'd argue, and sometimes—not wanting to be as bullheaded as his mother—she let it go.

On a Tuesday, she entered his bedroom after Theresa had gone to the health food store, thinking they might get a few stretches into an hour.

"Not today, Chris," he murmured. "I don't feel like it."

"But you've doing so well," she replied. "Please. For…even ten minutes?"

"No. I don't feel well. Seriously."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What's wrong?"

"I'm…not sure. My head and stomach kind of hurt; I'm a little nauseous. Maybe we overdid it yesterday."

He wasn't lying; the coloring in his face disturbed her. After taking his temperature, she noted that he had a fever of over a hundred. "Maybe I should call a nurse."

"You don't need…." He hesitated and then sighed. "Yeah, maybe you should."

It was a urinary tract infection, a problem not uncommon to people with spinal cord injuries. When Theresa returned home and saw two nurses in his room, she nearly went into a panic. They managed to calm her down with reassurances that a heavy dose of antibiotics should clear it up within a few days. Theresa stayed at his bedside most of the afternoon, and Christine was again reminded of her own helplessness.

Exhausted and not wanting to leave Raoul's side that night, she retrieved the butterfly and dialed the number. "I had an emergency today," she explained in the voice message. "I'm tired and unable to come tonight, but I promise I'll be at our next lesson. Sorry. Thanks."

By the following day, Raoul was looking better and the crisis was over. Theresa continued to hover over both of them as though they couldn't be trusted by themselves again. Of course, Raoul was too ill for physical therapy anyway, but Christine still felt smothered. By the time her lesson arrived, she was grateful for the evening escape.

Unfortunately, it had a less than pleasant beginning.

"You missed your lesson," was the first thing Erik said, thin arms folded across his chest.

"I know. My husband was ill, and I couldn't come. I called you…or that number and left a message."

"And?"

She shifted. "And I let you know I wasn't going to be here…."

"So?"

"So it wasn't like I didn't come without notifying you…."

"Every day you do not come is another day behind. It is another day your husband suffers."

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" she asked. "Leave him when he was sick? I had to stay."

"Mm. Well, let us begin."

He didn't say anything throughout her warm-ups, thereby making her nervous. After she'd sung through several lines of the newest piece, Erik suddenly interrupted her with, "Stop, stop. That was atrocious. You are _killing_ Erik. See what happens when you miss your lesson?"

"One lesson is not going to make a difference…."

"But I must disagree—as evidenced by that performance."

Lip trembling and hands clenched, she stood there and stared at him. He stared back. Her chest rose and fell with deep, angry breaths. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days, but she finally kind of…snapped. "Maybe this is hopeless," she stated through gritted teeth. "Maybe I'll never be good because—guess what?-- I'm not a singer! Maybe you're wasting your time! Maybe we both are…." She put both hands over her face and slightly bowed her head. "This is all so screwed up," she whispered. "I'll never be able to do this. What was I thinking?"

Erik didn't say anything. Staring between the cracks of her fingers, she could see his shoes. They were black and shiny.

Then, he took several steps toward her—and the exit. Christine was certain he was finally going to leave. He'd given up; she was a disappointment. Erik was going to leave. And she would be stuck with Theresa forever; Raoul would suffer. A sob escaped her throat. "Please," she said. "I didn't mean it. I'm just…tired."

The shiny shoes had stopped walking and were standing several yards away. Suddenly, she heard a soft whir at her feet. Removing her hands from her face, Christine glanced down and saw something that made her gasp. Three colorful tops were stacked on top of each other, all spinning together at the same time in a miniature cyclone. Mesmerized, she squatted down to watch them, admiring the delicate balance. Sticking out a finger, Christine couldn't resist touching the bottom one. Of course, the tops fell apart and onto the floor, each one spinning in its own direction until they all fell over.

Frowning, she gathered the tops into her hand and attempted to repeat the trick. Of course, it was a disaster. She couldn't even get one to spin on top of the other.

Erik softly laughed. "It takes people months to master that trick."

"How long did it take you?"

"Two tries."

"Hmph." She finally gave up and settled back onto her bottom. "What else can you do?"

He didn't answer, but a paper bird swiftly appeared on her shoulder, a bright red robin that was as realistic as the butterfly. The bird's beady black eyes stared at her, and it seemed to tilt its tiny head. She smiled, not quite as impressed. At least until the robin began to tweet and sing in her ear. The sound was so completely realistic that she wondered if there was some type of recording device embedded. But no. It was only paper.

"How is that happening?" she asked, drawing back her head and staring into its eyes.

"A secret," the bird whispered.

"Oh…."

"I should like to take a few strands of your long hair for my nest," the robin continued. It had the accent of someone from England. "I shall give you a few feathers in return. How is that?"

She giggled. "Okay."

"What a generous girl you are."

Before she could blink, there was another bird on her other shoulder. This one was a lime-green parrot with yellow fuzz on the top of its head and bright pink cheeks. "Squawk!" it screeched.

"Hello there," she replied.

"Hello there," the parrot repeated.

"What's your name?"

"What's your name?"

"My name is Christine."

"My name is Christine."

The robin scoffed. "It obviously has low intelligence."

"It obviously has low intelligence," replied the parrot.

"Now don't be mean," said Christine with a laugh.

"Now don't be mean," said the parrot.

The robin chuckled. "I bet it cannot even sing." The robin then whistled a few notes.

"I bet it cannot even sing," repeated the parrot. And then the parrot proceeded to…sing opera.

_Real Italian opera._ In a perfectly lovely tenor voice that made her eyes glaze over. Christine sat there and stared at the singing parrot, utterly mesmerized and enraptured.

When it finished several minutes later, the robin spoke. "Well, he certainly showed us."

The parrot replied, "Well, I certainly showed you."

Christine clapped her hands together in delight. "Wow! That was wonderful!" The birds were silent. "Hello?" she asked them. "Will you sing something else?"

"I fear that was the end of the performance."

Her head snapped up. Erik was speaking to her, still standing in the same place.

None of it was real.

The birds were mere paper, not magical creatures. It was all Erik. She suddenly yearned to live in a world where birds spoke to her, and her heart ached as she realized that would never be. Christine stared at the floor, unsure of what to even say to him now. Something suddenly occurred to her, and she glanced back up. "The singing…was real, wasn't it? When the parrot sang?"

"Yes."

"You can sing, then. Wonderfully." She shook her head in disbelief, staring at the floor again. "I still don't understand why you want me." She paused. "Will you sing again?"

"The parrot sings. And, no, he is done for the day. You, however, should sing."

"Erik, I'm so tired. I can't tonight. I'd…rather hear you play the piano."

"If we do not get a lesson out of today, it will be an entire week lost. An entire week of nothing. The parrot would not approve, and he might not ever sing for you again. But if you will put all your efforts into the song, perhaps I will play for you at the end."

"All right. That's fair."

"And, barring the apocalypse, you will not miss your next lesson?"

"I won't," she promised.

"Then let us begin."

She tried with all of her heart to sing, to focus on nothing but the music. She wanted to please him—not only because of his promise to play the piano, but because something had slightly changed after that strange episode. Erik had given her brief peace of mind; he had made her laugh.

"That was somewhat better," he said at the end of the song. "It will do for today."

"Will you play the piano now?"

"I said I would, didn't I? And I am a man of my word." He launched into a Mozart piece. Of course, nothing mattered after that. She sat down against the wall, leaned her head back against the plaster, and relaxed into the flawless melody.

When he stopped playing, she was half-asleep, her head tilting onto her shoulder. Yawning as the music ended, Christine checked her watch. _Eleven fifty._ With a gasp, she jumped to her feet, tangled hair falling into her face.

"Now what is wrong?" he asked.

"It's so late."

"Yes?"

"Theresa will kill me. And with Raoul being kind of sick. Oh, God…. She'll kill me."

"Will she? I do not take kindly to people killing my investments. Why do you not simply tell the woman to impale herself?"

She managed a sickened chuckle.

"Honestly?" he continued. "Why do you not do so? Why not insult the wench?"

"Well…." Christine paused. "She might kick me out."

"And your husband would permit that?"

"Well…no. But…." She swallowed and tried to figure out the answer. "I try to keep things somewhat peaceful for his sake. I don't want to start a war."

"Why not? Wars are the only events that make history lessons bearable."

"Well…it doesn't matter. It won't be like this forever. You're helping me get out, right?" She glanced at him for confirmation but received no indication either way from the yellow eyes.

"And you're avoiding confrontation and making yourself miserable. And that misery unacceptably leaks into these lessons and affects your voice." He paused, folding his hands in front of him. "The next time she irritates you, return the favor. Tell her to jump out a window in your more innocuous way. And if you do so, I will order the parrot to sing for you at the next lesson."

"How will you know if I really do?"

"Why, the red robin will tell me." He gestured to her shoulder.

She'd forgotten the paper birds were sitting there and quickly plucked them off of her. After a brief hesitation, she neatly folded them and carefully placed the birds into her purse. His answer had to suffice; she needed to go. "Goodbye, Erik," she said before racing out of the room and to her car.

Of course, Theresa's reaction was entirely predictable.

"Where were you?" she viciously asked under the glare of the entryway light. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes. And I'm sorry," said Christine. "I lost track of the time."

Theresa snorted. "You did, did you? What? Were you at a party or something? Booze and lots of good-looking young men who aren't stuck in bed day after day?"

"No! How could you even--I was at a music lesson!"

"At this hour? Ha! You are not going to lie to me in my own---"

"I'm not lying!"

Theresa held up a hand. "You are completely out of line. And I--"

"Leave me alone!" Christine finally snapped. "I have a right to go out in the evenings. I'm an adult, and I can do whatever I want. I don't care what you think of me. All you do is try to control everything; Raoul can't even get better with you here! And, as soon as possible, we're both leaving."

Theresa gaped at her. "You--"

"I'm going to check on Raoul, and then I'm going to bed," she interrupted, moving past her mother-in-law to head up the stairs. Her heart was pounding, and her face was flushed. She almost expected to be thrown out of the house right then. But Theresa didn't say anything else, and Christine didn't dare look back at her.

She glanced in on her sleeping husband and was relieved to see that his color was much better. Before going to bed, she also checked her cell phone. Knowing Erik wouldn't be happy if it rang during the lessons and that Theresa would have a fit if it disturbed Raoul, she'd been keeping it on the silent setting. Anne had called that evening but hadn't left a message. Making a note to call her back tomorrow, Christine prepared for bed.

While she'd been exhausted earlier, the argument had awakened her. She was high strung and tense, and it took her another hour to get to sleep. She felt somewhat better after taking a firmer hand with Theresa. But what if something awful came out of this? Should she have taken Erik's advice?

She found herself wondering what Erik did during the morning and daytime. He seemed to belong to the night, and it was strange thinking that he had some type of life outside of their evening lessons. What did he do in his spare time? What was his life outside of music? Did he treat everyone like he treated her? The head of the green parrot was poking out of her purse, slightly eerie in the dark, and she gave it a nervous smile. Maybe he made paper animals during the day, she thought before finally going to sleep.

Christine woke up late the next morning and rubbed her eyes, the events of the previous night returning to her. She was almost afraid to leave her room. Hopefully, Theresa was in the backyard, angrily tending to her garden.

To her dismay, though, she heard Theresa's voice as soon as she opened the door. Her mother-in-law was in Raoul's room, and they were speaking in hushed tones. Christine started to dart back into her bedroom, but Raoul called her. "Honey? Is that you?"

She cringed. "Yeah….Good morning."

"Morning. Could you come in here for a sec?"

His wary voice made her nervous, but she slowly walked down the hall. Theresa was sitting by Raoul's bedside and practically leaning over him. Although her expression didn't change when Christine entered, there was a coldness in her eyes.

"What's going on?" Christine shakily asked, wondering if Theresa had told Raoul about her outburst.

"Not much," he replied with a smile. "We were just discussing…our house."

"Our house?"

"Yeah. The one that you and I have," he replied.

"Oh. What about it?"

"Well…." He hesitated. "My parents were wondering if we could rent it out for awhile. I mean, we're not using it. You don't go there much. So maybe we could make some money off a rental property."

That hated thickness formed in the back of her throat. Now that her father's house was up for sale, her former home with Raoul was her last remaining escape if things ever became too hellish.

"Of course," began Theresa. "If you do want to start living there instead of here, that's fine, too. I simply don't think we should have a perfectly good piece of property sitting there vacant. Henry is keeping up with the mortgage, but it's silly that no one is using it."

"Yeah," Raoul softly replied. "I'd be okay with renting it out; we obviously won't be going back there anytime soon. Unless Christine wants it." He looked up at her. "What do you think, honey?"

Theresa watched her closely. Christine stood frozen—recognizing the choice in front of her. Either she would slowly be pushed out of Raoul's life, or she would be giving up her last chance at privacy and escape. "Let's keep it for awhile," she murmured. "I want that house."

"Oh," chirped Theresa. "So maybe you're ready to spend some of your time there? You'll have more room, I'm sure."

Raoul was staring at the bedspread, and Christine suddenly felt horrible. "Well, no. I don't know if I'll live there. But I don't think we should rent it out. I…."

"I just really don't want the home to go to waste," said Theresa.

"Christine wants the house," said Raoul, his voice soft. "We're not renting it out."

"Well, all right then," replied Theresa, patting his leg. "I'll let Henry know that she'll be there often. I'll even have a maid get in there and clean it up. God knows it's probably gathered some dust over these months. And then it'll be all ready for Christine." She smiled and stood. "Well, I'll let you both have some time. I'm glad we could have this conversation."

After she left, Christine swallowed and looked to Raoul. "You know that's not what…. I didn't have a choice. It was…."

He weakly smiled. "It's fine. Ignore her; we're not renting it out." He paused. "But Mom did say you didn't seem too happy here. So, you know, if you do want to live there permanently, that's cool. Whatever you want, Chris."

"I am happy!"

"You're happier whenever you get to leave. I see it in your eyes…when you visit Anne or go to those…lesson things—or heck—even when you go grocery shopping. And I understand why. I know this isn't a great situation for you."

She started to protest. Instead, she slouched and fell into the chair. "It doesn't have anything to do with you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know."

She leaned in, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "And you know that…if I do have to leave sometimes…if I have to get out of this house or maybe go places for my music...I'm doing it for us. I'll always come back."

"I know."

Theresa poked her head into the room. "Oh, Christine? I called Phillip. Whenever you need any help moving some of your things, he's happy to give you a hand. And yummy chocolate chip pancakes are ready for you both—whenever you want them!"

Christine was not one for violence. She'd never physically hurt a person or an animal. After her father read _Charlotte's Web_ to her at a young age, she even found killing spiders to be cruel. Contact sports on the television made her cringe.

But, at that moment, she really wanted to tell Theresa to…_go impale herself._


	12. Chapter 12

Hey, everyone. Here's our next chapter. I've been a little distracted fandom-wise with all the news of the POTO sequel. But I won't get into that here, except to say it's a little shocking that it's actually happening.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter. A big thanks to _MadLizzy_ for her continuous support!

**Enjoy!!!**

Christine added two more packets of sugar to her chai tea, trying to make the salty taste of tears disappear. Anne sat across from her in the café, shaking her head and taking a sip of her steaming cappuccino.

"I can't believe she's practically forcing me out," Christine continued. "It's in such an underhanded way that Raoul doesn't even realize it's happening. And I don't want to stress him out by telling him what's going on. What am I supposed to do? Make him choose between me and his mom?"

"What a horrible person," muttered Anne. "She did this out of the blue?"

"Pretty much. I came home late the other night, and she got angry. And I yelled back, and it…. I don't know. The next morning, she more or less told me I had to leave, or she was going to rent out the house."

"Hm. It sounds like the woman has serious problems." Anne clicked her tongue. "Maybe you'll like getting away from her, though."

"In some ways. But I get lonely when I'm by myself. I start thinking about my dad. And I feel like she's forcing me away from Raoul."

"Well…maybe _this _will be a small step in the right direction." Anne smiled and tugged a lavender flyer out of her purse. "Some kids need an accompanist for a local production of _Peter Pan_. It doesn't pay much, but it's something."

"When is it?"

"It'll start in two months and run for eight weeks."

"Oh…." Christine hesitated, knowing it would interrupt her lessons. "Nah. I don't think so."

Anne frowned. "Why not? I know it's not much, but…."

"I can't support us as an accompanist. It's impossible."

"Well, then what do you plan to do?"

Christine shifted and gazed at her tea. "Just explore other options."

"Oh." Anne stared at her before slowing folding the flyer into a square and tucking it away. "All right, then."

"Thanks anyway."

"Of course. I thought you'd be interested. They wanted all applications by today, so I was frantically trying to get a hold of you last night. I even called your in-laws' house and briefly spoke to Raoul. He sounds like a very nice young man."

"Yeah. He is. You should come see him some time."

"I'd like that. Anyway, he said you were…out at a music workshop," continued Anne. "Was it for piano?"

"Yeah…." Christine tried to avoid wriggling as Anne continued to study her. _Did she know?_

"It's odd that it's so late."

"It's a…unique workshop…for adults."

"Mm." Anne hesitated and then softened her voice. "Christine? Are you sure that everything's all right?"

"Yes. Everything's fine. Why?"

Anne sighed. "I'm sorry. I've seen plenty of young women under stress and depression. They can get involved with drugs…alcohol…unsafe situations. I want to make sure you're really okay."

Christine's shoulders slouched with relief. "No, no. I'm fine. I'm not doing any of those things. I promise. It's really a music thing."

Anne smiled. "All right. I believe you. But do keep in touch."

"I will."

The serious conversation ended. They made plans to have dinner at an Italian restaurant the following Wednesday, both of them deciding it would be fun to dress up and have a semi-carefree girl's night. Christine mentioned that Meg could come. Anne replied, "I doubt she'd be interested, but I'll ask her." Anne paused. "Actually, I think I'll make her come."

Christine laughed. "Well, you don't have to do that."

"I think I might," murmured Anne, her brow creasing. "But don't you worry about it. I'll meet you there."

Feeling only a little better, Christine soon left the café and drove to the Chagny home. Anne was a great listener, but she never seemed to have real solutions. Then again, no one did. Except…Erik.

She didn't know how much longer Theresa would tolerate her presence and had begun gathering up clothes and other possessions to take to the house she had owned with Raoul. On that day, Theresa had a book club, and so Christine planned her visit during those couple of hours. When she arrived, Phillip was out front with his silver sports car, speaking to a man she guessed was on the medical staff. They shook hands, and the man climbed into a white van and left.

"What's up?" she asked.

"We've got the wheelchair," Phillip replied.

"Really? That's wonderful!" He gave her a weird look. "You know what I mean. He can get out of bed now."

"Oh yeah." Phillip still looked like he had a lemon in his mouth.

"Is it up there?"

"Yeah. But don't expect Raoul to be happy about it."

"I know," she murmured, turning to go inside. "It'll take time."

"Hey, Christine. I uh…I'm guessing you and Mom got into it."

She turned back around, warily wondering whose side he was going to take. "Yeah. It was…. I don't know."

He chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Try growing up with her. It was a real pain in the a—rear."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Raoul was the star child. He made A's and B's; I was lucky to get C's. He was the athlete; I partied way more than I should have. So yeah. He was the better kid. But I didn't need to hear it every day, ya know?"

"Yeah."

"Thank God for Dad or I might have run away and gotten involved in some worse stuff."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't imagine what that was like." She'd treasured being an only child.

Arms folded, he stared at the ground. "She's been nicer to me since the accident. I've started dating a girl in med school, and Mom's thrilled. I'm physically…fine. I should be happy. But this still sucks to see Raoul like that. I almost feel guilty."

"I know," she murmured, bowing her head. "Sometimes I think it would have been better to be me. I'm not that athletic or active."

"Well, it happened like it did," he replied. "And it wasn't our fault. Nothing to do about it now. Anyway—went off on a tangent there—what I meant to say was that I know Mom is bad. But I also think she's convinced that you're going to eventually leave…that this is going to be too much for you."

"Well, it's not," she nearly snapped. "I'm doing everything I can for him."

"I know," he replied. "I was just explaining." He shrugged. "So let's go and cheer him up."

She nodded, and they went inside together and climbed the stairs. "Hi," Christine greeted as she cautiously entered her husband's room. At least the television wasn't on.

"Hey," Raoul sullenly replied. The wheelchair was sitting in the corner by the window; it was an expensive black electronic model with buttons on both armrests. Christine silently wondered if he would have been better with a simpler one—one that forced him to exert some physical effort. An awkward silence passed between all three of them. "So that's going to be the view from now on," finally muttered Raoul.

"No, love. It's just a beginning," she pled.

"Nah. C'mon, man," agreed Phillip with forced cheer. "One thing at a time. Give it two years, and you'll be kicking my ass again at basketball."

Raoul chuckled. "I could have done that the day after the accident."

"Yeah. But it would have been closer."

Christine was glad Phillip was there. Her words of hope always seemed to come out motherly and half-condescending, even when she never meant them to be. Raoul needed someone who could speak to him in a…well--a macho manner right now. She sat and let them discuss sports along with a new barbeque restaurant that had opened up, occasionally adding a comment when it was appropriate. When Theresa came home, she flinched and reached for her purse.

"Chill," said Phillip. He eyed the doorway as Theresa's footsteps approached, leaning back on his heels and folding his arms.

"Hello everyone," she said with a big smile, only briefly glancing at Christine. Theresa 's gaze finally settled on the wheelchair. "Well, I suppose that's a beginning. As long as no one _overdoes_ it."

"Yeah," Raoul murmured. "A beginning."

Theresa turned to Phillip. "How's your new girlfriend, dear?"

"She's good," he replied.

"Such a bright and courteous girl. You'll have to invite her over for dinner."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"What year of medical school is she in again?"

"Drop it, Mom," finally said Phillip with a sharp glare.

Theresa shrugged. "I was only making conversation."

Phillip shook his head. Raoul closed his eyes, the day wearing heavily upon him. Christine looked at the door, wanting to escape the passive-aggressive prison.

"Well, I'd better be off," said Phillip, stretching his arms over his head. "See everyone later."

"Me, too," added Christine. It was the perfect cue. "There's a lot of laundry to do."

"Thanks for stopping by," Raoul told them with a wave. She might have felt guilty for leaving him with Theresa , but he seemed tired. Her husband would probably fall asleep for the rest of the evening. At least Theresa could handle the nurse visits.

"Hang in there," said Phillip as he headed for his car.

"You too," she softly replied.

That night, Christine slept in the house by herself, fluffy comforter drawn up to her chin as she listened to the normal creaks of the foundation and the rumble of passing cars. She kept the television on all night at a low volume, feeling her stomach turn as infomercials passed. Maybe she'd become used to the isolation in time. Her gaze fell on Raoul's side of the bed and then wandered to the closet where his pressed dress shirts and ties hung. Had it really been less than a year ago that life seemed so simple? After a breakfast of toast and eggs, on the day of the accident, he'd leaned down and kissed her goodbye.

"Coffee breath," she'd joked.

"Tea breath," he retorted with a grin and then left.

Christine curled up into a fetal position beneath the covers. Somewhere between the Magical Muffin Maker and the Ten Minute Tummy Toner, she fell asleep.

The next days passed with a few visits to Raoul, errands, and hours spent completely alone. Several times, she considered calling Anne again, but Christine didn't want to constantly bother the woman with her problems. At least solitude was perfect for practicing her singing. As long as she stayed at a reasonable volume, she didn't disturb anyone. By concentrating on perfection, she could even forget her situation.

Still, by the time Tuesday arrived, Christine was desperately ready for her lesson. She even arrived at the room early. "Hello, Erik!" she said. It was perhaps a too cheerful greeting for a yellow-eyed shadow standing in a dark corner.

He stared at her before responding. "Good evening."

"I practiced all weekend. I hope it shows."

"We will see now, won't we?"

She put her soul into the music, her energy and misery and whatever joy was left. She reached a brand new note and stayed on key. It was by far one of her better days. And, most importantly, Erik noticed. "Good," he said at the end. "Much better than I expected. You're going to be ready for your first small performance soon." A short laughed escaped his lips. "Whatever happened to you, let us hope it continues."

Her face fell, but she didn't explain. Instead…."Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I…sort of stood up to my mother-in-law. So will you…or will the parrot sing now?" It came out kind of pathetic, but she'd been looking forward to the voice for days.

"Did you bring the parrot?" he asked.

"Yes. Both of them are in my purse."

Erik glanced at the leather bag.

"We are slowly suffocating do death in here," said the robin's muffled voice. "The end is near."

She giggled and unzipped her purse, taking out the birds and carefully unfolding them. "Please sing," she begged the green parrot.

Seconds later, the parrot sang again in its divine voice. This time the lyrics were in Russian, slow and mournful. Even though she couldn't understand the words, the song still brought tears to her eyes. Hands balled into fists beside her heart, she wished it would sing forever and felt the heavy weight of disappointment when it was over.

"And what exactly did you say to your mother-in-law?" asked Erik when the parrot was finished.

It took Christine a moment to wake up from her operatic daze. "I told her that I didn't care what she thought of me. And that she tried to control everything. And that Raoul and I would get away from her someday."

"Mm. Well, it is a beginning. And your singing was better for it, wasn't it?" Erik turned away from her, which meant the lesson was over.

She panicked. "I…I want to sing some more."

He sharply turned to face her. "What? No. Your voice is exhausted. I don't want it damaged."

She frowned. It was entirely irrational but…. "Will you play the piano, then?"

"It is eleven. Are you not the one who went into convulsions over the late hour last time?"

"That's the thing," she softly replied, staring at her hands. "I don't live with my mother-in-law anymore. When I stood up to her, she sort of kicked me out. I'm staying where Raoul and I used to live."

"All the better. The woman will not stress you. And you have the freedom to sing at any hour." Erik turned away again.

"What are you going to do now?"

"What am _I_ going to do now?" he repeated, turning toward her once more. "I really don't know. Organize my foreign coin collection? Hold up a convenience store? So many possibilities at this hour." He laughed and then reached out toward her with open palms. "What is it that you want, girl? I fear you have lost me with this little game of yours tonight."

What did she want? Well, she didn't want to be alone. She wanted laughter and talking animals and to drown in the music. But he had better things to do; everyone did. No one had time for silly little Christine and her stupid emotions.

"I don't want anything," she snapped, heading for the door. "See you Thursday."

"Christine?"

She shakily turned around, now completely embarrassed by her attitude. _What's wrong with me?_ "Yes?"

"Here is another little friend for you." He sounded far more amused than angry.

A flash of white flew through the air. She glanced down and saw a paper swan at her feet. "Oh…."

"She does not speak or sing, though."

"Thank you." Christine bent over and picked the artwork up, admiring the curved dark eyes and intricate feathers that made up the wings. It seemed to be watching her behind the large eyelashes. "Why not?"

"What?"

"Why doesn't _she_ speak or sing?"

"I don't know," replied Erik in an annoyed tone. "But spare me some diatribe concerning women's liberation. Hell, I'm the only one drawing you out of your little domestic nest two times a week. Accept that the swan is simply silent."

"Oh." She was too tired to sort out what he'd just said. "Well, I like her. She's beautiful." Christine stood there holding her new feathered friend, unable to help but glance at the piano once more.

"If I play one more song, will you be quite satisfied?"

She gratefully bobbed her head up and down. With a soft grunt, Erik sat at the instrument. Christine crouched down onto the floor, crossed her legs, and leaned forward with her chin in her hands. Nearly ten more minutes of peace passed by as he played a Tchaikovsky medley. By the end, she accepted that it was time to leave.

"It is late," he said as she tiredly stood and gathered her purse. "But no one will be there to scold you, will they?"

"No. Goodnight, Erik." She paused. "Thank you."

"Christine." She turned. "Uninvited guests are an irritating sort of company, and you, girl, are a perfect sort of prey. Lock your doors."

_Did I lock the doors last night?_ "I will."

She went home and fell asleep quickly, dreaming of music and aviaries.

* * *

Anne had spent ten minutes fixing up her face before dinner, trying to hide the wrinkles on her brow and shadows beneath her eyes. The last month had worn her out. Meg had been sneaking around with her boyfriend, inviting him over whenever Anne was out or running off to his house under the guise that she was studying with friends.

There wasn't anything particularly wrong with Aaron. He was generally a nice boy who stayed out of trouble. But he _was_ a teenage boy. And Anne wasn't ready to be a grandmother.

"God, Mom. Don't be disgusting," Meg said after Anne had attempted to give her a lecture. "We're not stupid."

"No," Anne replied. "But you're hormonal teenagers, and that's even worse. I don't want you alone with him in our house."

Meg scoffed. "Whatever."

"In fact, I'm not going to leave you by yourself at night anymore until I can trust you. You're going out with me and Christine to dinner."

"What? Why? You two are friends. Are we going to listen while Christine mopes the whole time? Yeah, that's not depressing."

"Meg! What is wrong with you? I did not raise you to be so uncompassionate."

"No," she muttered. "You showed me what happens when you make the whole world your charity case."

Anne gritted her teeth. "You are going with Christine and me. And if you're unpleasant, I swear to God you won't leave the house for a month."

"Fine," Meg muttered. "This is like the only time we've ever gone to a nice restaurant. If you're paying, I'll go."

Meg had been keeping her so busy that Anne had been unable to give Christine as much attention as she would have liked. Thankfully, Christine seemed to be holding up. The sadness in her eyes had faded. Even as she walked through the door of the restaurant that evening, wearing a form fitting red dress lined with lace black flowers, her head was held higher.

"You're looking good," said Anne. "And what a lovely outfit."

"Thanks," Christine replied with a smile. "I haven't worn it since Raoul and I went out a long time ago. It was…one of his favorites. "

"How's your husband?" Meg asked. She'd softened slightly with Christine there. For the most part, her daughter was polite with other people, saving her teenage rage for her mother.

"Better," Christine replied. "We have the wheelchair ready, so he can start going out when he feels like it. I'm hoping and praying I can get him out for our anniversary."

"That's good," Meg replied. "My boyfriend has a friend who's been in a wheelchair his entire life. He plays sports and everything."

"I know. I wish Raoul could understand that life's just a little different now. He's not doomed."

"It might simply take time," Anne said, handing Christine a menu.

It began as a pleasant, nearly perfect evening. Meg was in a decent mood, enjoying her creamy lasagna and the fancier atmosphere of white tablecloths and wine glasses. Christine frequently smiled and made conversation, slowly savoring each bite of strawberry cheesecake at the end. Anne was able to finally relax. Maybe these two girls weren't falling through the cracks of society.

Near the end of dinner, Christine's cell phone rang. She excused herself and hopped out of the booth to talk to her husband.

Anne pulled out a compact mirror to make sure there was no spinach stuck in her front teeth. She glanced up when she heard Meg exclaim, "Oh!" Her daughter then softly laughed. "Yikes. Christine left her purse on the floor, and there's like fifty bucks sticking out of the zipper."

"Oh, dear," said Anne. "Well…pick it up and try to push the money back in. That girl is going to get robbed someday and not even know it. Poor thing."

Meg reached down and grabbed the leather bag. She paused. "Heh. Look at this. It's like a really realistic paper bird. A swan, I think. Kinda cool, huh?" She held up her discovery.

Anne glanced up from her mirror again. Goose bumps ran up and down her arms, and a chill ran down her spine.

"_I made something for you."_

"_What did you make, Erik? Oh. How clever! And so real." _

"_Yes, Anne. It is a deer. See. It can run and bend its neck. My going away present to you."_

"_Oh. It's…But why does it only have three legs?"_

"_It was born that way."_

"_Oh. Well, that's fine. It still looks very healthy."_

"_But you want one with four legs, don't you, Anne?"_

"_I never said that! I want this one. It's lovely." _

"_You're lying." _

"Mom, are you okay?"

She started as Meg touched her arm. "Yes. Fine." Her heart was quickly thudding, and a cold sweat had formed on her forehead.

"Are you having a heart attack? I bet it was the rubbery sausage."

"No. I'm fine." She took a deep breath. _It couldn't be…. _"Zip the purse up, and leave Christine's things alone," she chided.

Meg rolled her eyes but obeyed. "It was practically falling out."

Christine soon returned with a smile. "Sorry!" she exclaimed. "Raoul suddenly decided he did want something from the restaurant. He's probably sick of his mother's cooking. I ordered it at the front."

Anne stared at the young woman's face, searching for any sign of…nervousness…terror. There was only confusion as Christine stared back. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Fine," Anne whispered. "You left your purse. Meg picked it up."

"Oh, thanks," Christine replied, grabbing it.

"There was some stuff sticking out; I pushed it back in," said Meg.

"Thanks! I've got to stop doing that." Christine and Meg chatted for a few minutes. Anne felt as though she were listening through a fog. When dinner was over, she watched Christine leave holding the Styrofoam take-home box, still searching for any signs of distress. There was nothing beyond the normal concern that always plagued Christine Chagny.

"Are you sure everything's all right?" Meg asked as they were driving home. "You look really weird."

"Fine," Anne replied, her fingers digging into the wheel. "Everything is fine. I'm tired; that's all." Lots of people made paper animals; it was a fairly common hobby. _But not ones that were so good. _

_You would have noticed if she were upset. Something would have alerted you to the fact that _he_ was still bothering her. Right?_

She didn't sleep that night. She lay awake, trying to convince herself that her conclusions were ridiculous. Erik was long gone, probably involved in activities that would make Anne's blood run cold. Yet, there was no way of verifying anything…no way of having even a clue…except….

Tomorrow was Thursday. That was the last night Christine had attended her music workshop. Anne still found such a late class odd; she'd never heard about something similar from anyone else. As long as Christine wasn't sneaking off to bars, Anne had brushed all concerns aside. But what if…what if it was something just as alarming?

_You're overreacting, you senile old woman. _

The next evening, Anne left Meg alone and drove to Christine's house, parking across the street behind someone's trailer. She switched off her headlights and waited. Sure enough, around sunset, Christine walked outside and climbed into her car. After she had backed out of the driveway and driven to the end of the block, Anne slowly began to follow her. The drive was short, and it came as no surprise that they wound up at the music complex. Anne didn't get out of her car until Christine had reached the glass doors and entered the unlit building.

Ignoring her pounding heart, Anne followed her inside. No one else was there, and nothing signified that any sort of workshop was in progress. Suddenly, though, the distant sound of a piano broke the eerie silence. Anne climbed the nearest set of stairs, following the soft notes of "Für Elise."

She reached a door with a triangle of light creeping out from underneath. Anne placed her hand on the cold doorknob right as the song picked up speed. Slowly, she opened the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. And then she was met with the less than extraordinary sight of Christine playing a piano…all by herself.

"Anne?" Christine asked. She placed her hands in her lap and glanced up. "What are you doing here?"

Anne stared at her, her mouth dry. "I'm…helping clean up the theatre. And you?"

"Practicing the piano."

"I see."

They continued to stare at each other. "Is anyone else here?" finally asked Anne.

"Maybe the janitor," Christine softly replied.

"Oh. That's all?"

"Yes. Who else would be here?"

"I don't know." Anne took a step backwards, wringing her hands. "Well, I'm sorry to interrupt. I…thought you had a workshop tonight."

"That's…every other Thursday."

"I see," said Anne. "Well, I'll let you get back to your piano. Goodnight. Be careful here by yourself."

"I will. Night," Christine replied.

Anne slowly closed the door, feeling as though she were stepping out of some other dimension. Something was off. Years of raising Meg had taught Anne how to spot a mistruth. And the normally docile and honest Christine had done nothing but lie that night. Anne returned to her car and sat for ten minutes, eyes focused ahead and jaw clenched. Then, she took a deep breath, threw open her door, and raced back up to the same room, determined to see what was really happening in there.

She opened the door.

But the room was dark and deserted now. The piano was silent. She cracked open the doors of some nearby practice rooms, but they were all empty. Frustrated and exhausted, Anne's shoulders slouched, and she headed back outside—just in time to see Christine's car turn the corner and leave the parking lot.

"What in God's name?" she whispered to herself. Tired of the game, she gave up and drove home. There was nothing else to be done.

_No._ There was something else to be done. Instead of sneaking around like a deviant, she could be an adult and address this directly.

Before going inside, Anne took out her phone and dialed Christine's cell. Not to her surprise, the voice mail answered. "Christine? It's Anne. I'd like to talk with you as soon as possible, dear. Tomorrow even. It's important. Please call me back. Thanks." After tucking her phone into its case, Anne nodded in satisfaction. Whatever it was, she was going to nip it in the bud.

She climbed out of her car, keys jingling in her hand as a warm wind brushed against her cheek. It was time to see what kind of trouble Meg had gotten into that night.

"Anne, Anne, Anne. I don't know if I approve of you following my new _friend _during these late hours_. _You very much upset her. And stalking is illegal, you know? But I will overlook it this once." A dark silhouette was now blocking her way to the entrance of her home…and to her daughter. Anne froze. "Perhaps it is time we speak."


	13. Chapter 13

Hello, everyone. I hope you're enjoying the Halloween season. This chapter got a little long, but hopefully it'll keep you entertained. We're getting ready to transition to the next phase.

Thank you as always for your wonderful comments. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Enjoy!!!**

"Erik!" Anne rasped when she finally found her voice. She took two steps backward and nearly tripped over a loose rock. A gasp escaped her lips as she steadied herself. "You—You—"

"Calm down," he said with a touch of amusement. "All is perfectly fine. There is no need to become excited."

"Meg," she murmured. It was the first word in her mind. _Is Meg okay?_

"Meg is fine. Why with that boy sneaking away only ten minutes ago and me out here now, she was quite safe—even in this little horror of a neighborhood." He glanced around at the battered houses. "I'd say at least half these garages are serving as meth labs. Really, Anne. You should let me give you more money."

Jaw trembling, Anne gathered her resolve and stood up straight. "What are you doing with Christine?" she asked in an angry hushed voice. "I thought you had left a long time ago! What the hell is going on?" Terrified as she was, she also wanted to grab Erik by the shoulders and violently shake him.

"It is very simple. Christine and I are working on a project together. A musical project. I play; she sings twice a week. The results will be brilliant."

"How did you get her to agree to do _anything_ with you?"

"I merely offered my services and requested that she give me a call if she was interested. And she did. I still have her little message."

"I don't believe it," said Anne. "Why…why…?"

"Why would she consort with someone as ugly as me?" A coldness crept into his tone.

"Nothing like that," Anne snapped. "But she was frightened of you…."

"And now she is fine. Why? Has she been acting frightened? Did she come to you in tears, afraid that I would—oh, I don't know—blind her with my ugliness? If Christine is scared, do let me know."

"N-no," Anne admitted. "She never said anything. I just…I don't understand."

"You wouldn't," he replied. "It is a very artistic matter. Only Christine and I understand the time and dedication."

Anne pursed her lips. "You're not giving me the whole story. What did you say to her?"

"I told her I would make her a great singer. I told her of her abilities. And that talent leads to wealth. Wealth leads to independence. And I told her of the peace music would bring." Erik shrugged. "Oh, I was ready to leave. I thought perhaps she was simply too lost…too fragile for my plans. But she called me. She called and asked me. And how could I deny her when I had made the offer? That would have been cruel, no?"

"What if you're making promises you can't keep? What if you can't help her?"

"But I can, Anne. I already am." He scoffed. "You have faith in nothing."

"I do have faith. I…." Anne hesitated. "I want to talk to her."

"Do you? And what will you tell her? What a monster you think I am? Why she should stay away from Erik? That's not very helpful." He took a small step toward her.

"I'm not going to _tell_ her anything!" Anne exclaimed, managing not to step backward. "I'm going to ask her questions. I want to know that she's okay."

"Without me, she was on the verge of depression."

"Maybe so. But…she has been lying to me about this. She's never lied before. She's a good girl."

"Yes. Well, I warned her of your reaction to our friendship. If you attempt to interfere, you'll be condemning Christine to depression. And you'll be condemning Erik to return to other activities. Is that what you want, Anne? You want me to abandon music and pursue—let's see--perhaps I could take up smuggling organs. I hear kidneys are fetching a high price. Is that what you want?" He nearly growled the sentence. "Is it?"

She grimaced. "You know I want the best for you! I've prayed for you every night! I've always hoped you'd find a legitimate career! You were a brilliant child! And I'm not going to destroy a friendship, if that's what it really is." Anne buried her face in her hands. "Oh, God, Erik," she whispered. "This is completely beyond belief. Please be good to her. I don't want her to be hurt."

"I will not hurt her. Without making up any lies about me, ask her if she wants me to go away. If she says 'yes,' I will go. If she stopped coming to her lessons, I would disappear. But she needs the music. As I do. It is our survival."

She only shook her head in response, still trying to comprehend what was happening.

"You could even help," he continued. "You have connections to that little theatre, and she needs a bit of practice performing."

Anne sighed in defeat. "I'm not going to brush this aside and forget it. I'm going to talk to her."

"Of course. So long as you don't drive her away with lies." He softly hummed. "This is all quite perfect; I feel such peace. I know you want me to have peace. I know you want what is best for me…."

"I hope it is…good," she whispered, shoulders slouching. "I hope you're both happy. But please, please, please be good to her."

"I am very good to her." He stepped backward. "It is time for me to depart, I think. Goodnight, Anne. Take care of Meg. Have a delightful evening." He disappeared, leaving only a chill behind him.

Anne stared at the spot where he'd stood for several seconds before slowly turning around in a daze. She opened the door to her home and entered, heart still racing. Her eyes adjusted to the light.

There was a _creak_, and she rapidly whirled around. Meg had stepped into the kitchen. "Something wrong, Mom?"

It took Anne another moment to speak. "Go to your room, young lady. You're grounded. I know that boy was here tonight."

Meg gaped. "How did you know--"

"Just go to your room!"

"Argh!" Meg stomped away; a door slammed.

Anne slid into a chair at the kitchen table and placed her face into her hands, digging her fingers into her hair, desperately trying to think. What now? What was the right thing to do? When had right and wrong become so complicated?

If Christine showed any signs of being trapped in some terrible agreement, Anne would stop it. But….

But if this was all consensual…or a friendship….

Rose-colored cobwebs began to thread themselves through her mind. How could she destroy the potential salvation of two people? If Erik was finding peace and redemption…if Christine was gaining confidence and happiness…if this arrangement were the divine solution for everyone….

How could she stop that?

* * *

Christine had noticed Anne acting a little strangely toward the end of their dinner. The older woman became quieter, and she'd stared at Christine with an uncomfortable intensity, facial muscles tensed. Still, Christine didn't think too much of it. Anne was often a little distant.

It was only when she went to her lesson the following evening that the seriousness of the situation fell upon her. Instead of standing with a relaxed posture beside the piano, Erik was in the middle of the room, leaning forward with a strange glint in his eyes. Christine nearly gasped. "What's wrong?"

"Did you tell Anne of these lessons?"

"What? No!" she exclaimed. "No. I haven't said anything. Except that I have a music workshop; she found out I was gone one night. I had to tell her something. But not that you're here."

He studied her and then waved his hand to the side. "Very well. It does not matter, but she is on her way up here right now." Christine gasped again. Erik continued speaking, his voice only slightly more stressed than normal. "Sit at the piano. Play something you know; work on your acting. Listen, and I will tell you what to say."

She had frantically obeyed, playing the only memorized piece in her head at the moment. Her heart was pounding as Anne entered, and she nearly stumbled over her words…her lies. Thankfully, Erik's voice drifted into her ear, feeding her lines.

After Anne left the first time, Christine had stepped away from the piano and searched for him. "She's gone," she whispered. Erik didn't appear, but his voice was audible.

"Anne is amusingly persistent, and I fear there will be no lesson today. Leave the room. Go right and then to the entrance of the farthest stairwell. I will give you more instructions within a few minutes. Follow them. And then I will treat Anne with an explanation."

Christine's lip trembled. "We'll have more lessons, right?" she asked. "I promise I didn't say anything. I promise."

"Of course, girl. Don't have a heart attack. This is a minor issue that we would have had to deal with eventually. Although we may find a new building. Now _go_. I will communicate with you soon."

She nodded and headed for the designated stairwell. Eventually, he had said, "Quietly walk down the stairs. Run to your car and drive home. If she follows you there, tell her you're not feeling well and cannot speak. Then go inside. I will deal with the rest of it."

She obeyed again. Thankfully, Anne didn't trail her home, but Christine was shaken for the rest of the night. She still wasn't certain about the relationship between Erik and Anne. Why couldn't Anne know about the lessons in the first place? Christine hadn't thought about it too deeply; she'd been looking forward to her lessons and had managed to ignore any oddities in the situation.

The next morning, after a troubled sleep, she discovered the voice message from Anne. She hesitated and then tossed the phone aside. What was she supposed to do? She needed those lessons, but she didn't want to avoid Anne forever. Erik and Anne had both taken their places in her life and losing either of them would be devastating. Worry and a touch of anger flooded her. _Why did people always have to be taken from her? It wasn't fair!_

In the end, her panic was unwarranted. As she should have expected, Erik was there to guide her through it.

There was an envelope sticking out of her front door, and her first name was in red, slightly messy cursive on the front. Curious, she tore it open and took out a folded piece of white stationery. She unfolded it and read.

_Christine,_

_Anne will wish to speak to you. Allow it. She now knows of our meetings. Take her words with a grain of salt; her view of the world is odd. On Tuesday night, go to the address below, and we will recover from this minor setback. _

_E_

At the bottom was a new address and room number. Holding the letter tightly against her chest, she went back inside. He'd probably found her home address in the phonebook. She was too thankful to put too much thought into it.

After a ham sandwich and potato chips for lunch, she called Anne back. "Hi." The guilt was evident in her voice. "It's Christine."

"Christine," replied Anne, her tone hesitant. It sounded very different from her confident, almost stern voice message. "I'm so happy to hear from you, dear. Can we meet soon?"

"Yes. Anytime. Where?" She was expecting the café.

"How about the Baptist Church about two blocks from your house? With those pretty colorful windows. At around one?"

Christine blinked. "A…church?"

"Yes. Is that okay?"

"Uh…sure."

"Wonderful."

Puzzled as she was, she went to the meeting. The church was nearly empty, its high ceilings and multiple windows making it seem even larger. Anne was sitting in an aisle at the very middle, as far away from the white walls as possible. Christine slowly walked over, shoes softly squishing into the carpet. They were both bathed in sunlight.

"How are you?" asked Anne, voice echoing.

"I'm good," she replied. "I'm sorry I lied." A church seemed like an appropriate place for an apology.

"It's fine," Anne murmured. "It was an unusual situation. Have a seat."

Christine sat down in the row in front of her and then turned around, crossing her legs. She nervously folded and unfolded her hands.

"How long has it been going on?" softly asked Anne. "The meetings between you and Erik?"

"Over a month. Probably getting close to two."

"My goodness. And you've…been okay with it all?"

"Yes. It's been fine…kind of amazing."

Anne lowered her voice to a whisper. "I invited you here because it should be very private. No one will know what you tell me. You can speak the truth."

Christine tilted her head. "What? Why would we need to hide? I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I'm just making sure," Anne replied. "I want you to feel comfortable."

Christine hesitated and unsuccessfully tried to read Anne's expression. "You said Erik wasn't dangerous. Only eccentric."

"I did. Yes. He is."

"Well, that's what I've found. He's not always very…nice. He's blunt, but I'm getting used to it. He has the most amazing voice. And he's funny sometimes. And he's a ventriloquist!" She paused and lowered her voice. "Sorry. I don't mean to sound like a kid. It's…he's making me a really good singer. I didn't believe it'd be possible at first, but it's really happening."

Anne's green eyes softened, and she folded her hands together. "So you enjoy your time with him?"

"Well…I…." She finally answered honestly. "Except when he's criticizing me, I guess I do. I look forward to the lessons."

"That's good," Anne murmured.

"Each time I go, I get better. And I feel more comfortable. Especially now that I'm living alone. On those nights, I'm less lonely."

"Yes, it's nice to have friends." Anne was staring off to the side, obviously in thought.

Christine leaned in slightly. "Can you tell me any more about him?"

Anne quickly glanced back up and bit her bottom lip. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Whatever you know about him."

"I can't say that I know very much about him now…except what I last told you." Anne leaned back into the cushioned seat.

"Well, what did you used to know?"

"Oh…I don't know. His childhood was unstable and unhappy. And…well…you know, I think you'd better ask _him_ if you want more information. I'm not the best person to ask."

"Well, he's very talented with music," said Christine. "I think he should pursue that. He could be so famous. It's…amazing."

"I think you're helping him with his music," Anne softly replied.

Christine half-laughed, half-scoffed. "Yeah. Like he even needs my help. You've heard him…."

"I have. But I think you kind of inspire him."

"That's nice to hear. I'm glad I'm doing someone some good."

"Don't be silly." Anne reached out and gently took her hand. "You do plenty of people good. I don't know. Maybe you're both good for each other."

Christine smiled. "Yeah. If both Raoul and Erik…and me are helped, it's all kind of perfect, isn't it?" Her voice wavered as her heart ached with genuine hope. The shine in Anne's eyes reflected back her optimism. And, for a moment, their surroundings disappeared. She and Anne were sitting in a white ring of warm glowing light.

"Good," said Anne. "Maybe this could be good."

Anne squeezed her hand, and the light faded. They both stood and hugged each other.

"Call me if you need anything…for any reason…if you're ever afraid…," Anne whispered.

"Why would I be afraid?"

"Any reason. If Raoul gets sick, for example."

"Oh. I will."

Anne leaned back, continuing to give her a distant smile. "We'll meet again soon."

"Right. Any time."

They parted ways.

Christine felt more joy than she had in a very long time, as though everything were coming together in a perfect circle—a halo. Erik had been right. Music was going to fix everything and everyone. She and Raoul would be free of Theresa. Raoul would heal. Erik would reach his true magnificent potential. Christine twirled around in the sunlight, loose hair softly brushing against her face.

She didn't even mind being alone that night.

That weekend, she and Nurse Amanda managed to bring Raoul out of the house for the very first time. It was only the backyard, but it seemed like the moon. Phillip and Henry both kept Theresa at a distance, even as she complained and yelled while Raoul was lowered down on a newly installed chair lift. Henry snapped at one point. "Damn it, Theresa! Let the boy get some goddamned sunshine before he rots up there! He's going to get more decrepit than he already is!" Raoul blanched. "Is that what you want?"

Theresa stared at him for several seconds and then burst into tears, her sobs audible throughout the house.

Henry followed her as she ran into another room. "Sweetheart, I didn't mean it. You know that."

"I just want to protect my son!" she wailed. "How could you be so heartless? No one loves me!"

"Darling--" A door closed, and their voices faded.

Christine, Amanda, and Phillip ignored the spectacle and silently wheeled Raoul onto the back porch. He squinted in the sunlight, hands curling around the armrests.

"This is wonderful," Christine murmured.

"It's weird," he replied.

"You'll get used to it soon," said Phillip.

"We'll only try it for about fifteen minutes," added Amanda with a gentle smile. She sat at a distance to give them space and began shuffling through a manila folder. Christine was always slightly envious of her; she seemed so…together.

"Let me know when you need me," said Phillip, walking away with a blank expression. "I'll be in the garage."

Christine took her husband's hand and entwined their fingers. "Doesn't it feel good to be out?"

"A little, I guess."

"Our anniversary is coming up," she slowly began. "If you were feeling up to it, I thought maybe we could go out then."

"I…I'm not sure."

"Phillip can help arrange it. We can have a nurse come along."

"Maybe, honey."

She let it go. "Okay."

A stone fountain with a cherub was bubbling several feet away, and Raoul watched it for a few moments. He then glanced at her. "You've seemed different lately."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good, I think. Happier. A little distant, sometimes, but…happier."

She smiled and stared downward for a moment. "Remember…my father always used to like that saying about the door and the window. When the door closes…."

"A window opens," Raoul finished. "Yeah, I remember. You used to think it was corny."

She softly laughed. "I did in high school. I thought everything he did was corny. But…he was right, Raoul. A window has opened. My father's dead, but I've been given something else. A…."

"A what?"

"Musical perfection…a musical angel."

He tilted his head. "Honey, are you feeling okay?"

She whacked him softly on the shoulder. "Not literally. Never mind."

"You're sure you're okay?" he asked. "Sometimes it seems like…."

"Like what?"

"Never mind." He looked ahead again, still squinting. Under the glare of the sunlight, it was more obvious how pale he'd become. "Well…let's…let's try to figure something out for our anniversary."

* * *

_Yes, Anne. I'm sure if I set foot in a church, I'll burst into flames. You know, for someone who's devoted her life to 'fixing' me…._

Ah well. He hadn't expected to be in earshot for the conversation, anyway, not in broad daylight at some public place. Christine would give him the details. As Anne said, she was a good girl.

He'd chosen a fancier building for their subsequent lessons, wanting her to feel starlit. It was several stories tall with large glass doors and arches, along with a few nearly nude statues out front. The room he chose had a concert grand piano and the spaciousness gave the music a rich quality.

Still wary over her conversation with Anne, he waited somewhat impatiently for her that night. Anne was the one person with enough power to destroy his project. Not that she didn't have weaker points-- her daughter, for one. If Christine didn't show up for the lesson, he was certainly going to pay Anne another visit.

But Christine did arrive and two minutes early at that.

"So you found your way," he stated as she slowly walked into the room, examining her unfamiliar surroundings.

"I did." Her eyes were bright. "It's a nice building."

"Yes. It was time to take a step up. And we'll continue to do so until we're at the very top, no?" He paused and then disinterestedly asked, "Did you speak to Anne?"

"Yes."

"And?"

She shrugged. "It was a short conversation. But I think she was…happy for us."

"Excellent. And what else did she tell you?"

"Not much—"

His shoulders tensed. "I've warned you not to lie." The girl was terrible at it.

"She just said…you had an unstable childhood," Christine softly admitted. "But that's all. She said…to ask you if I wanted to know anything else."

He chuckled, simultaneously annoyed and amused. _Really, Anne? You're going to drag the girl into your mission to save humanity?_ "Everyone has a rough childhood," he replied. "If everyone did nothing but bemoan their childhoods, nothing would ever get accomplished. Anne pities everyone. She's selfless—which means she never has to focus on herself. No one wants to see the skeletons hanging in their own closet."

"I think she only wants to help people," replied Christine with a soft stutter. "I mean, and I don't care about anyone's childhood. I just…we're helping each other now, aren't we? With music? That's all."

He tilted his head. "Do you like to help people, Christine?"

"Well…yes. Of course."

"You like to save them. Like Anne does?"

"Well, I--"

"Never mind," he said. "Never mind. Let us return to our lessons and forget this nonsense."

Of course, the only way to get Anne to agree to this situation was to frame it as his salvation. But she was actually pulling Christine into the mission--and Christine was embracing it. They were playing into his hands, and he wasn't even trying. Maybe he'd been manipulating con artists, cartels, and hit men so long that he'd forgotten how easy it was to take the general populace for a spin—particularly two women who'd give Mother Teresa a run for her money.

As Christine sang for him that night, he pondered whether he should take advantage of the sympathy card. There were plenty of decent lines to use. _You're saving my soul with music, Christine! I was on the dusty road to Hell before I heard your voice!_

In the end, he didn't. He didn't need it; she was already willing. And, more importantly, he didn't want it. For a reason he couldn't quite grasp, he didn't want her sympathy.

"That was adequate," he said at the end of her ballad. "Compared to where we were at the beginning, it is rather amazing. We're going to have your first performance very soon."

"Do you really think I'm ready?" Her hands were clasped together.

"No, I speak only to amuse myself." She stared at him, obviously still not quite able to wrap her mind around sarcasm. "Yes. You are ready."

She beamed. And then came the plea he heard after every lesson: "Will you sing or play the piano?" Without a word, he played for her. And she was content.

When it was over, she headed for the door before suddenly turning back around. "Oh! Erik…I…I won't be able to come two weeks from today. It's my anniversary. And I think Raoul and I are going out for the first time since…the accident."

Her eyes pled for mercy. For whatever reason, he granted it. "Mm. We will move the lesson to that Wednesday."

"Thank you!"

He paused and then nonchalantly inquired, "Where are you going?"

"_Emiril's_. It should be…well, I hope it'll be a great first step."

"Mm."

"Goodnight, Erik." She departed. As always, he kept an eye on her as she walked to her car in the dark. She climbed inside and switched on the headlights. She started to back out, braked, and then drove back into the parking space. After parking, she turned on the inside light. He could see her holding a cell phone up to her ear. A couple of minutes ticked by.

_Oh, hell._ Throwing up his hands, he stalked down the stairs and stormed outside. When she noticed him several yards from her car door, Christine jumped out so quickly that he nearly took a step backward. "Erik!"

"Why are you still here?"

"I have a flat tire. I can't get a hold of Phillip and was going to try Anne. I…guess I could try Henry. I'm sure Theresa will love that." She bowed her head. "Maybe I should have learned to do this. But my dad and Raoul have always done the car repairs."

He scoffed and waved his hand to the side. His project was not going to damage and dirty herself changing tires. "Anne will be disruptive if she knows of our new location. I will call you a taxi."

"Okay," she murmured. "Thank you."

He paused before dialing. All he would do for the next hour is wonder whether the driver was a serial killer. "Hell. I'll drive you home."

She actually smiled. "That would be…wonderful."

_Wonderful._ He led her to his own black car, parked in a corner obscured by trees, and opened the doors with a click. "You will sit in the back." He didn't want her staring at the side of him. He situated her behind the passenger seat and clearly in his line of vision from the mirror.

"Okay." She climbed inside, disappearing into the darkness. "It's roomy."

His investment was now secure. As he drove, he glanced at the rearview mirror. She'd nuzzled her cheek against the seat and was staring out the window, nearly ready to fall asleep. A dead man had been in the backseat of his car once. Of course he'd had it cleaned. Still….

An unwanted feeling began in his stomach, traveled up through his chest, and then settled in his mouth like a bad taste. It was probably the first time he'd felt it in years. He'd last experienced it when he was about eight and witnessing two other boys crush a baby bird with a rock. What a vile, annoying feeling.

_Pity._ He was pitying her.

Perhaps it was the fact that everyone was using her, although he was likely the only one who'd ever admit to it. Even Anne was using her to save _him._ Or maybe it was the fact that she was coming to _him_ of all people for comfort and guidance. She had curled up in the back of his car as though it were a nest, right where the feet of the dead man had been.

He wanted to escape the feeling. The fun of the chase and challenge was fading. The cat had caught its prey—only to discover that the mouse had two legs and vertigo. He could have left and resumed his other existence; it would have been fine returning to projects that were less personal—like assassinations. If he left, she'd be devastated, of course. But why should he give a damn if she wound up in a mental ward for attempted suicide? He doubted she'd be successful on her first try.

After reaching her home, he watched her sleep for a few moments before saying, "We're here."

She opened her eyes and glanced around, confused. She quickly calmed and looked toward him, smiling again. He wished she would stop. "Thank you _so_ much, Erik." Christine opened her door, pausing before she climbed out. "Um…what about my car?"

"It will be fixed and delivered to you by tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh…wow. Okay. Thank you. I can pay you back if---"

"Get inside and do not think on it."

"Thank you," she whispered one last time.

He wouldn't abandon her. She would make him millions. And he would keep her as alive, safe, and happy as she was capable of being. Perhaps she would eventually gain confidence and stop trembling like a beaten puppy. Then he could stop pitying her and resume his previous life.

Yes, once she had brought the world to its knees with her voice, Christine would know what it was like to stand above everyone else. He'd found that feeling after taking out three men all by himself during one of his first hits. He was faster…smarter…better…. He was above them.

He watched her walk to the door, twist the key into the lock, and enter. A light shone for about twenty minutes, and then the house darkened. He stepped out of the car to make sure she'd locked the door. She had; he left.

That night, after some hard whiskey, he made a phone call.

Yes, he was using her. But he was going to make damn sure he was the last one that ever did.


	14. Chapter 14

Thank you all for your continuous support! Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing!

**Enjoy!!!**

A bearded man in a baseball cap and flannel shirt phoned her and then delivered her car. When Christine saw that four brand new tires were supporting it, she almost choked. The man scratched his nose with a calloused thumb and said, "Yup. She's all fixed up there. New battery, oil change…all that good stuff."

"That's just…so wonderful," she replied, sniffling.

"I know how ya feel, ma'am," he replied with a firm nod. "I get real passionate about my cars, too."

The lessons had become her shelter, and Christine decided that she wanted the security twenty-four hours a day.

"Thank you for helping me that night," she said upon her next lesson. "And for taking care of my car." If it had been anyone else, she would have hugged him. After what he'd done for her, even his intimidating stature wasn't holding her back. But Erik always became very annoyed when she invaded his personal space, and so Christine kept her distance.

"It is nothing," he replied, taking a seat at the piano. "I will not have you stranded somewhere. You might miss a performance." He positioned his fingers over the keys to begin.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound silly. And please don't laugh at me or get angry if you don't want to do it." Her face grew warm. "But you…I mean, I know we're only business partners and that's…."

He chuckled and dropped his bony hands in his lap. "Girl, if you do not simply say it, I'm going to perish of old age."

"Right." She took a deep breath. "I know this is all business, but you're still one of my only…contacts. And so I was wondering if there was a way I could directly reach you during the day if I ever needed help. Of course, I'll always try Phillip and Anne first. I promise I won't bug you. But…for emergencies."

He didn't laugh. Erik only glanced down at the piano, dusting his fingertips along the keys. "Yes," he replied. "It is also going to become necessary to stay in contact once we begin traveling. Change the last two digits of the number I gave you to six and four. Leave a message; it will reach me immediately."

A thousand pound weight was lifted off her shoulders. No more _alone. _

"Your debut is soon," he continued, oblivious to her emotional state. "I am scheduling it as we speak. You will sing one song for an audience of a hundred or so."

"Oh. Wow." Butterflies formed in her stomach. "What if I'm not ready? I'm nervous."

"You will be in the beginning. But all tasks in life become much easier after repetition."

"You'll be there?"

"Does one bet his fortune on a horse and then skip the races?"

She glared slightly. "I'm _not _a horse."

His mirth faded, and he glanced back at the piano. "No. You are very much a singer. And you will be a damned good one at that—assuming we begin the lesson and cease the chitchat."

"All right," she agreed.

Knowing that Erik was there if she needed him made her feeling stronger over the next week, especially as she prepared Raoul for their anniversary. At least every other day, usually when Theresa was gone, Christine coaxed her husband outside and into the daylight. She pushed him down the stone paths and around the flower gardens and swaying palm trees. They went into the front yard where an occasional car passed by and to the neighborhood park where a few children were having a contest to see who could swing the highest. Raoul was generally quiet, his eyes wandering over the familiar scenery as though it were now a foreign country.

The evening arrived. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she softly asked, "Do you think you're ready?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

As they stood in front of a full-length mirror, Christine draped a midnight blue tie around his neck and began to knot it. "I don't want you to be miserable on our anniversary," she murmured. "I just…I want us to begin to live again."

"I know. It's fine. I'm ready. We'll have a nice night."

When she was finished, she leaned down and kissed his cheek. "You look so handsome."

"You're…beautiful." He said it with pain in his voice as he gazed over the same red and black dress she had worn with Anne. His eyes settled on her face. "And you look so happy."

She started to wheel him out of the bedroom. "And why shouldn't I be happy? I'm going on a date with my husband, aren't I?"

"Remember our first date?" he asked. Raoul had been doing a lot of reminiscing lately.

"Yup," she replied. "A carnival. And you won me a stuffed elephant. I still have him."

"And remember what else happened?" A rare grin crossed his face.

"Yes." She faked a scowl. "I had a red ribbon in my hair. It came off on the Ferris wheel, and you climbed out of your seat and leaned over the edge to grab it. You scared me half to death over a fifty cent ribbon."

"Yeah, I did." He sighed. "Those were good times."

"Well, now we're going to have more good times," she stated. "Starting tonight."

Phillip arrived along with a male nurse who would be strong enough to help in an emergency. Christine had asked Phillip to bring his girlfriend along, but he'd shrugged and declined. "I think she's working a late shift." It didn't exactly sound like a promising relationship. Raoul had complained before about how fast his brother went through girls. Christine wondered if Phillip were terrified of marrying someone like his mother but never said that aloud.

All the bases were covered. Henry was even going to distract Theresa with a pair of gold hoop earrings that Phillip had picked out. Theresa was still adamant about keeping a cellular phone at her side all night. "You call me if anything goes badly," she told Phillip, casting a side-glare toward Christine. "Anything. Even the slightest bit of pain, and you call me. And sit close to them. Christine isn't strong enough to help him."

"Yeah, Mom. I've got it. It's all good," Phillip replied. Christine bit her tongue.

They used a specialized white van to drive there, one with the necessary mechanics to lift in a wheelchair and large enough to hold a month's worth of medical supplies. The new-car smell blended with a sterile hospital smell, and Christine discreetly wrinkled her nose as she climbed in the back with Raoul. After they were all in, he softly declared, "Now I really miss my old car."

"Heh," replied Phillip from the driver's seat. "That thing was in worse shape than you after the accident. I doubt they even had to crush it at the junkyard."

"You know, I don't even remember," said Raoul. "That day…I remember leaving work, and it all gets blurry."

"I'm glad you don't remember," said Christine, slipping her hand into his. The van became silent after that save for the hum of the air conditioning. Phillip and the nurse chatted a bit about how quiet the last hurricane season had been. She stared out the window, her thoughts hopping from place to place, including to her lessons. They passed by a pet store with a sale on parrots, macaws, and lovebirds.

"Do you want a pet bird?" asked Raoul.

She jerked her head to look at him. "What?"

"You were smiling; I thought maybe you wanted a pet parrot or something." He shrugged. "Maybe you should get a pet for the house, since you're alone there so much. Maybe a good guard dog."

"I…no. I mean, I wouldn't mind a cat or something someday. But not a big dog; I couldn't control it."

"We could get one that's already trained."

"I don't know. I'll think about it." Frankly, she didn't want something else to depend upon her for survival. The thought of pets or children made her nervous; she'd probably end up killing one of them. She couldn't take care of her own father, after all. _You failed him, you stupid little nothing. _Panic and self-loathing washed over her, and she anxiously wrung her hands together. _Calm down, Christine. Erik is taking care of things now. It'll be okay._

"We're here," declared Phillip, breaking into her thoughts. He turned back to look at them, appearing rather suave in his suit and sunglasses. "You two crazy kids ready?"

She and the nurse laughed, but Raoul seemed less than amused. He gazed outside at the other customers, laughing people passing in eveningwear…or rather _walking_ in eveningwear. He gripped her hand a little tighter.

"Are you ready?" she asked him.

In the front seat, Phillip's phone rang. "Yeah, Mom, everything's fine. You're not going to call me every five minutes, are you? Yes! Jesus, I said everything's fine." This conversation continued for another minute until Phillip finally hung up with a whispered obscenity.

"Are you ready?" she asked again.

Raoul took a deep breath and then nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."

* * *

"So this…_this_ is the anniversary? Looks more like a funeral without a body." _He_ watched the taped recording a third time, his first close peek at Christine's life outside music. "That is not a positive environment for our little singer, is it? No wonder she always looks like she's ready to crawl into a hole."

"It was a little somber," agreed Nadir. "It's a lot for two young people to deal with, I imagine."

_He_ gestured to the frame of her helping her husband with his napkin and silverware, annoyed. "That boy wallows in his own self-pity, sucking her into his depths of despair. Her mother-in-law is a hellish bitch. And--here's the cherry on the damned cupcake, Nadir-- Anne is now using Christine to save me from myself."

"Well…." Nadir appeared speechless. "I guess it is a problem." He scratched his chin. "Here I thought you would have me do something less than savory. And this…well…hm…the music industry, huh? That…meek girl is going to be a singer?"

"Are you doubting me, old friend?" He folded his hands together and leaned back into the sofa. They were in Nadir's hotel suite. _He'd_ recently rented an apartment and regularly switched between it and a hotel room, but there was no way in hell he was going to lead _anyone_, including Nadir and Christine, to his current abodes.

"No. I'm only a little surprised."

"You're an idiot. And if you don't have faith in my endeavors, then get out of this city and don't return." He flipped off the video toward the end of the dinner, right before Christine said 'I love you' and shared an awkward kiss with her husband.

"I do have faith!" Nadir exclaimed, nearly rising out of the chair. "I have lots of faith!"

"Hallelujah," _he_ mocked.

"What I meant to say," began Nadir, settling back into the armchair and composing himself. "Is that this is a lot different than what I was picturing. In a good way! When you said a girl was involved, I thought you'd taken a turn into human trafficking or prostitution. I had my reservations about assisting you. But this…this is different." Nadir paused. "You haven't worked in the music business before."

"In the end—and I don't care whether you're smuggling drugs or opening a restaurant—it's all the same. Money controls the game." He shrugged. "But it will depend on her in the end, and I dislike that loss of control. It is a gamble, and she'll determine whether we win or lose."

"She's pretty," Nadir murmured. "There is something kind of loveable about her, isn't there? She reminds me of those blondes from the fifties and sixties movies."

"Wait until you hear her sing," he replied. "Every note that escapes her lips is a little dollar sign. It's only her poise that's off. But once she hears the applause and feels the stage lights, I think she'll have a different perspective. I'm going to get her traveling--far away from this depressing mess."

"Ah."

He glanced at his old partner. "But I want you to be where I can't always be. When a physical presence is required, you'll sometimes do my negotiating. You'll be in charge of security. Most importantly, guard her when I'm not nearby. Make sure she's not in distress." His hands curled into fists. "And if you see anyone attempting to take advantage of her, inform me. Or shoot them—whichever you prefer. You're capable; I recall hearing about you taking down a man who was about to put a bullet through the head of your Congressman."

"Yes, well…. And you'll help me save the city?" Nadir asked. "I practically resigned my position for this; it didn't garner any respect, anyway. I was a joke."

He scoffed. "Why do you even care? You're going to be rich. Your city can burn, and you can fiddle."

Nadir's expression darkened. "It's not just about the money. Whatever goes on with this girl is still _your_ glory. I want some recognition, and I'm tired of being stepped on by the thugs that run everything. You don't know what it's been like these past years; I don't have an ounce of self-respect left. But…but imagine if I returned and brought down the worst criminals. Imagine if I appeared out of nowhere and just…fixed everything. Wouldn't that be something? Of course, it's only possible with your help…."

"Hell, we'll pay the thugs to leave your city. Make them find a new city. Or a new country. Canada has a lower crime rate, no? Well, it's time for them to pick up their fair share." He chuckled. "We'll ship them off to Ottawa. Ontario. Toronto." He briefly hummed the Canadian national anthem; it was difficult to take Nadir too seriously.

Nadir softly laughed. "I don't know. I liked the super hero idea."

"I think you've had far too much to drink."

"Probably." Nadir set his mug down. "Any trouble with the local police? I could give you a hand there as well."

"No," he replied. "They're incompetent, really. They don't even know who I am. They're still focused on a couple of incidents from when I was an idiot teenager. And Anne has always been helpful. Years ago, she told them that poor Erik died in a tragic boating accident. If that woman weren't so hung up on saving society, she'd be jolly good fun."

"Good, then. This all sounds…good." With a slightly intoxicated glint in his eyes, Nadir softly began to hum _O Canada_.

_He _snatched the mug away with a sneer. "You will shut up now."

"Right."

"And do occasionally check up on the law enforcement rumors. We have yet to see if Ignacio Hernandez is really dead. Or Boris Kovalski."

"Or Nicostrato Mancini," Nadir added. "Yes. I'll make sure your foreign personas are really dead."

"Good." _He _flipped the video back on and rewinded it, watching as the boy took a few bites of food, his blue eyes self-consciously wandering around the restaurant. _He_ could read Christine's lips as she spoke to her husband. "No one is staring at you."

_Except Nadir. _He chuckled to himself.

As much as he wanted to deny it, her first performance was putting him on edge. If she was a disaster, it wouldn't be the end of the world, but it would still set a precedent. And if Christine were booed off the stage, she would crawl into a deep hole, and months would pass before he would be able to pull her out of it.

Her debut arrived. He was forced to sit through over an hour of amateur singers, pianists, and dancers. He'd made sure Christine was the last one; a permanent imprint would be left on the minds of the audience. Anne had helped schedule her, but there'd been nothing difficult about putting her on the list. He winced as someone mangled _Silent Night _on a violin. It seemed anyone was allowed on stage, an excuse for the average nobody to get his fifteen minutes of fame and for parents to live vicariously through their talentless children. Nadir was sitting in the middle row, yawning with a bored expression.

His heart jumped as it became Christine's turn to go on, and he rose slightly from his seat at the back of the audience. (He'd have preferred a box or balcony, but the wretched place wasn't fancy enough for them.) Wearing a modest lavender blouse and black skirt, she was wringing her trembling hands together beside the stage. Fear was clear on her face. "Go," he murmured in her ear. "Put your head up. Breathe, girl. Breathe."

She jerked her head upwards, probably more in surprise than because of his order. Christine nodded once and slowly climbed the steps. She closed her eyes as she stood in front of the microphone, chest heaving. The accompanist began the Broadway ballad. He kept her versatile, introducing her to everything from show tunes to pop ballads to easier classical pieces. Tonight's song wasn't extremely difficult, but it managed to showcase her range well enough. And he wanted to save the impressive music, including his own pieces, for when it was time to begin churning a profit.

Her voice was timid at first, and he nearly growled. "Christine," he rasped in her ear. "As we've practiced! Stop trembling and sing!" He cast a glare at her husband at the front of the audience. _That boy had probably ruined her mood with his constant sulking! Damn it! _

But then Christine improved. Her voice became stronger, her head held higher and her eyes brighter. The kicked puppy disappeared, and the star came out. _Yes, yes. Good girl. _By the middle, she was magnificent.

"Brava," he murmured at the end. It may have never reached her ear; the audience was standing and clapping at a deafening volume. Her husband was desperately reaching out to her from his wheelchair, eyes wide with complete shock. She took a quick, nervous bow, and the applause continued.

_He_ clasped his hands together in victory. _Mine. This is all mine._

He considered a brief a meeting with her but decided it could wait for the next lesson. She was surrounded by her family. Instead, he departed to meet Nadir at the hotel and celebrate with a glass of fine wine. Energy buzzed in his veins; it was ten times better than the highs he'd received from a successful, clean hit.

After the performance, Nadir was also bouncing with energy. "Good God," he said, palms outwards in disbelief. "That was incredible."

"Isn't she brilliant?" he smugly asked, leaning back in the cheap chair. "And she is ours. She won't a sign a thing without my permission."

"Yes, I imagine she wouldn't want to cross you."

"She is not afraid of me," _he_ replied, annoyed. "She is loyal."

"I'm sure you made her an offer she couldn't refuse?" Before Nadir could react, _he_ had the idiot by the collar of his shirt. "I believe you. I believe you, Erik. I was kidding!"

"You're not funny. And you're spoiling my good mood." _He_ released him.

"My apologies." Nadir rubbed his neck. "How did you ever find her?"

"It was really an accident," he replied, leaning back with the wine glass clasped in his fingers. "She fell into my hands, and it was all like clockwork from there."

"Amazing," Nadir murmured.

His good mood lingered for days, and he composed some of his best works as he waited for the next lesson. Now they could begin making true progress and fan the flames of her success. Just wait until the world heard her singing the pieces he had written specifically for her voice!

The last thing he expected was Christine to come to her lesson five minutes early with a scowl on her face.

"And what is wrong with you?" he asked. "After that night, how could anything be wrong with you? Did you see their faces, girl?"

Her lip trembled. "I searched for you afterwards. You weren't there."

"_What?_"

"After it was over, I looked for you. For almost thirty minutes. But you were gone."

"You were surrounded by your family," he snapped, entirely taken off guard. "There was no need for me."

"I left them to find you! You don't know what it was like. I was so shocked and scared. I didn't even know if I did well."

"All you had to do was look at the audience."

"But I wanted to know what _you _thought! Erik, if I'm going to do this, I need you to be there. That was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. And you were the only one…who could understand. But you weren't there."

"If you were in a crazed panic, why didn't you call the number I gave you?"

"It didn't seem like an emergency," she whispered. "I just…thought you'd be there."

Speechless, he stared at her. "Fine," he replied, mostly to appease her. "If it pleases you, I will meet you after the next performance."

"It was so strange," she continued as though she hadn't heard him. "And Raoul…he said he couldn't even believe it was me up there. Phillip said, 'Holy…f-word, Christine. Where have you been hiding?' It was so strange. I nearly fainted at the end."

"But did you enjoy it?"

"I think so," she whispered.

"Good." He attempted to loosen his tense shoulders; sometimes the girl confused the hell out of him. "As I said, you'll become used to it. It was only shocking last night."

"But you'll meet with me next time?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." Her expression softened. "Are we going to have lessons tonight?"

"Yes. But it is also time for us to begin discussing the…other aspects of this arrangement."

"Other aspects?"

"Your appearance," he slowly began. "Your hair, your makeup, your complexion, and your posture. All of it will matter."

"Why should I change my appearance?" she asked, jutting her chin out.

He nearly groaned. "Now is not the time for half-witted idealism. There will be no nonsense about appearances not mattering; anyone who tells their children that should be strung up and tortured. And I, Christine, I of all people know this better than anyone. You must look the part."

Her mouth hung open for a moment. And then she softly said, "You're right, Erik. I know you're right." Christine stared at the floor and frowned. "I…I was just thinking about what Raoul said on our anniversary. He was so afraid people were staring at him because of the wheelchair. It was so heartbreaking. And…I…it doesn't seem fair that it even matters…."

"Nothing comes fair," he coolly replied. "_Make_ it fair. At the very least, get some sun. Go to the beach. Isn't that what women do? Lie on beaches and read mindless novels?"

"I don't do that."

"Good God, girl. I'm not asking you to swim in a shark tank. Simply get some sunshine so people don't think you're terminally ill."

"Fine. I will." A slightly dejected expression remained on her face.

"You were magnificent that night," he continued. "All of the time and effort has been worth it. There is no reason to look back with a single regret."

She slowly smiled. "If you weren't here, I couldn't do this."

"It is a combined effort," he said with a shrug. And then he casually added, "And I'm correct to assume you'll continue with me and not sign the first contract some crook hands you?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I would never betray you like that. We're partners."

He nodded once in satisfaction and then headed for the piano. With some alarm, he noticed she was approaching him.

"Erik?"

"What?"

"We've never shaken hands for this deal."

"So? We've never signed a contract. It is all informal, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied. "But…I thought we could just…shake on it…."

He waved his hand to the side, trying to get her to step backwards. "It is unnecessary."

She stopped several feet away and held out her open hand.

"This is ridiculous. It guarantees nothing on either side."

"But I…." She stopped speaking and tilted her head, her eyes narrowing and focusing on his visage. "Your face," she murmured. "I thought it was my imagination before…but…are you wearing a mask, Erik?"

He took a deep breath before speaking, clenching and unclenching his hands. "What did I tell you from the beginning?" he asked in a low, icy voice, looking her straight in the eye. "Keep your distance—both physically and conversationally. You are not doing either now, are you?"

She withdrew her hand and quickly took several steps backward. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It wasn't my business. I'm sorry. I just…I wanted to shake your hand."

"Let's begin," he said. "We've wasted enough time as it is."

She rapidly bobbed her head up and down in agreement. He played the piano, attempting to ignore the tension in his muscles. Within a half an hour, he'd gone from celebrating the beginning of his triumph to having to deal with all the girl's emotional issues. And now she was going to ask Anne about the mask; Anne, of course, knew to keep her mouth shut.

Then again, maybe it didn't even matter if the girl knew at this point. She wasn't afraid, and it was all simply business in the end, wasn't it? Christine wasn't going to abandon these lessons—along with the chance to save her husband—all because she had a very ugly business partner. Her annoying near-rant about appearances not mattering was evidence enough of that.

Yes, let the cards fall where they may. This changed _nothing_.


	15. Chapter 15

Hi, all. I hope everyone's enjoying the holidays. Thank you as always for your kind reviews. There was some confusion about the mask, but I think this chapter will clear it up.

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for her continuous support.

**Enjoy!!!**

It'd never occurred to her that there might be something…unusual about Erik's face. He'd always been obscured in the shadows, usually wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She could only see the outlines of a jaw, mouth, and nose beneath those two yellow eyes.

On the night he'd driven her home, though, she'd noticed that his features were unusual. His lips didn't move when he talked, and it almost seemed as though she were staring at a mannequin. When she'd approached him to shake his hand, she'd finally realized that his visage was artificial. He was wearing a flesh-colored mask designed to look like a face.

Why on earth would he wear a mask? After mulling it over, Christine could only come up with two possibilities. Well…there were three, but one was too upsetting to take seriously.

Either he was very eccentric. Or he was physically disfigured.

There was really only one person who could give her an answer.

The next morning, she dialed the familiar number on her cell phone. "Hi, Anne."

"Hi, dear," replied the warm voice. "How are you? Still recovering from that big night? I know I've said it before, but you were absolutely breathtaking. He's certainly taught you well."

"Thank you," she replied, still getting used to the compliments. "I um…I was wondering if you'd like to get together with me and do some girl…stuff. Erik wants me to fix myself up a little for when I perform. And I've never had a mom to do this with so…."

"I'd love to!" Anne exclaimed. "How fun. It's been so long since I did something like that…."

They met at the nearest shopping mall. Christine had layers added to her hair, and the stylist gave her advice on how to add volume and the appearance of lush softness. She had a simple manicure that didn't require too much care, and she purchased some high quality lipstick and mascara. Anne helped her choose some nicer outfits, including skirts and dresses for performances along with several name brand shirts and jeans for casual days. Even with Raoul's money at her fingertips, she rarely embarked on a shopping spree or had a makeover. No one ever noticed her, and it seemed pointless. Besides, her husband had always indicated that he liked her "natural beauty."

"Are you paying for all this?" asked Anne at one point. "Or will he reimburse you?"

Christine shrugged. "I can afford it. But I'm sure he would if I asked. Unless…does Erik have money or…?"

Anne was staring at the tiles as she walked. "Yes. He has some."

She'd thought so. Erik was too talented to be broke.

"That was fun," said Anne as they sat sipping fruit smoothies in the food court. "Meg and I never did it much together. She thinks I'm old-fashioned. And we never had the money, I guess."

Christine frowned. "If you ever need help, I could…."

"No, no," Anne interrupted. "Don't even think about that. We're fine."

"Does Meg know about Erik?"

Anne twitched. "No. I mean, she doesn't know he's here right now. I wouldn't mention him when she's around. Please. I should have told you earlier."

"Why not?"

Anne was twisting a paper napkin in her hands. "Meg finds Erik's eccentric behavior annoying. And so we tend to not discuss him. Meg doesn't like anything unusual." She gave an odd laugh. "You know how it goes. Typical teenager who only wants to see or hear about what's in style. They don't like anything…strange."

"Oh." Christine found that weird; Meg had seemed like she would appreciate quirky, alternative things. Couldn't Meg see Erik's obvious brilliance? She hesitated. "Hey…I have a question…about Erik."

That caution once again entered Anne's eyes. "Yes?"

"Does he wear a mask? He does, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

Christine leaned in and whispered, "Why?"

"Erik is the one who will have to explain these matters to you. It's not really my place."

"But he's not hiding, is he?"

Anne unfolded her legs. "It's not my place," she softly repeated. "I'm sorry. Erik wouldn't want me to interfere, and this…this is something between the both of you."

Christine sighed. "Well, you've said he wasn't dangerous, and so I'm going to assume that he's not hiding because he did something bad. So I'm going to guess there's something physically wrong or that he's just eccentric. And that's fine."

"It's fine?" Anne murmured as though confused.

"Of course it's fine. He's my only hope. He knows so, so much, Anne. I think it was a miracle that I met you and that you knew him. I don't think I could get up in the morning if not for both of you."

She was surprised when Anne leaned across the table, nearly knocking over one of the Styrofoam smoothie cups, and hugged her.

"What was that for?" she asked as the older woman drew back.

"I don't know," said Anne. "I felt like it."

Christine's cell phone rang at that moment; it was Raoul. "Hi, honey," he softly began when she answered. "I wanted to make sure you were still stopping by tonight."

"Yes," she replied with a smile. "I still plan to. Why?"

"Just making sure."

"Do you want me to bring anything?"

"Maybe a pizza…if it's not too much trouble. I don't want you to go out of your way."

"Of course it's not too much trouble." Taking out a pen and pad of paper, she jotted down the list of toppings he wanted. They said goodbye and 'I love you' and then hung up.

"How is he?" asked Anne.

"He's been different since my performance. I can't even explain it. But he seems to notice me a little more."

Anne slowly nodded. "Maybe when he saw you up there, he remembered what he had. Maybe it shocked him out of his slump."

"Maybe," said Christine. People's reactions to her singing were still making her a little uncomfortable. That was one reason why she had wanted Erik that night. He didn't treat her differently afterwards. She'd met his expectations, and he was pleased, but he hadn't gushed. "Well, I guess I'll head home and piece all this together. I hope I don't end up looking like a …well…promiscuous."

Anne laughed. "You won't. Keep it light with the lipstick and mascara until you find the right balance. Show enough skin to keep them guessing but not too much. It's all about moderation."

"You know a lot about this…."

"For an old woman," finished Anne. "Yes. Well, I was young once." She gave a distant smile. "Yes," Anne murmured. "He'll be very pleased when he sees you."

She didn't know whether Anne was referring to Erik or Raoul; she didn't ask.

Christine went home and put some effort into herself. Her hair took an hour, and she was nearly ready to hack it all off by the end. Erik probably wouldn't appreciate that, though. She stared at her figure beneath the shimmering midnight blue dress. She'd never had problem with her weight, but she still felt a little underdeveloped in certain areas. Or as one eleventh grade boy had so kindly put in a locker room: "Christine Daae? Is that the blonde chick? Her face is all right, but she's kind of a pancake. I'd still do her if she didn't seem like a prude."

Although they hadn't been dating yet, Raoul had supposedly shoved the guy against the lockers and told him to shut up. Despite it all, high school drama still seemed a hundred times easier than what she had been through in the last year.

After fixing up her face, she studied herself in the mirror. It was a definite improvement; she looked fit for the stage lights. Noticing that it was about time to visit Raoul, she dressed down into jeans and a blouse but left her makeup on and her hair styled.

To her dismay, he was watching television in his room--in the dark. "Raoul," she chided as she switched the lights on. "It's not even six yet."

"You look different," he said when she entered the room holding a pepperoni, olive, and mushroom pizza.

"Yeah. Well, I have to fix myself up a little. For singing. Do you like it?"

"Yeah," he replied. "You look…really amazing."

"Thanks." She took out some paper plates and served him.

"You've been having singing lessons all this time, haven't you?" he asked, staring at his steaming slice.

"Yeah."

"That's what you've been doing all these nights. With a group or a teacher?"

"Um…a teacher."

"What's it like?"

"He's a brilliant musician. Kind of…different but so brilliant."

"Wow….Well, you were great, Chris. I never knew you could do that…." There was an odd tone to his voice, almost a sadness.

"Are you coming next week?" she asked. Erik had already arranged for another performance.

"I'd really like to. But Mom is probably going to have a tantrum…especially with that cold going around. And with the crazy crowd last time. God, I nearly held us up there for an hour. But if you need me to I can---"

"That's fine," she said. "I mean, don't ever worry about holding us up. If you want to come, please come. But I will be singing a lot, and I don't expect you to watch me every time. Do whatever you want to do. It won't hurt my feelings."

"Thanks. I'll try to come another time." After slowly finishing off the first slice, he set the paper plate aside.

"Don't you want more? I bought a large."

"Maybe later."

She frowned, remembering the days when he'd nearly finish the pizza off by himself. After eating two slices, she stood and began to gently massage him, working down his thighs and to his calves. "Do you feel anything?"

He shrugged and settled back onto the pillow. "Sometimes I think so. And I then I think I'm imagining it. Like those people who can still feel their body part after an amputation. Phantom limbs."

"Well, if you're feeling anything, it must be real," she said. "You still have your legs."

"Maybe." He silently watched her as she worked, arms folded behind his head. She softly hummed her performance piece. The air conditioner switched on; a car horn honked. Christine felt as though they were in their own little world, both protected and isolated. "Are you going to play the piano?" asked Raoul, breaking into her thoughts.

She nervously laughed. "You know, I haven't in awhile with singing. Do you want me to?"

"Yeah. I miss that."

"All right."She went to the other room. It took her a moment to reorganize herself. Now that she'd had a taste of perfection, her piano playing was completely inadequate. As the disjointed notes rang into the air, she was embarrassed. After a couple of easier songs, she peeked back into their bedroom to see if Raoul was covering his ears in disgust.

He was sleeping with a peaceful expression. With a sigh, she kissed his forehead, stuffed the pizza into the Chagny fridge for Phillip or Henry, and left.

Erik was right about her next performance. It all became a little easier despite the fact that she was among better musicians this time. She could focus and didn't feel like she was going to fall over. She could see the audience applauding and feel the warmth in her cheeks. The lights were bright, and the ovular room was enormous. She bowed and mouthed 'thank you' at the end.

At the end, she left the stage to find Erik. He'd _better_ be there, or she was going to…to….

"Hey." A male voice stopped her in the hall. She turned to see two guys, a blond and a brunet, smiling at her. They were around her age, dressed in jeans and polo shirts.

"Hi," she replied, subconsciously smoothing out her black skirt.

"You were awesome up there," said the brunet. "And you looked great."

"Thanks!"

"We were wondering if we could buy you a drink," said the blond.

"Oh…." She held out her hand, fingers spread, to show them a small wedding band. Recently, she'd explained to Raoul that the giant diamond made her afraid for her safety. He'd agreed and told her to pick out something simpler for when she was out at night. Apparently, the new one didn't attract enough attention.

"Oh," they said, their faces falling.

"That's cool," said the brunet. "Have a good night. Good luck."

"You, too." Cheeks warm, she ran off to find Erik, hopefully in their old practice room. Was it wrong to feel flattered? But then…her thoughts guiltily fled to Raoul; he was probably lying in bed by himself while his mother constantly checked on him. He'd developed a little cough, and Theresa was certain it was because he'd been going outside too often. That was ridiculous, but there was no convincing Theresa.

"Poor Raoul," she murmured to herself as she entered the familiar former practice room.

"Poor Raoul."

"Erik!" she exclaimed.

"Erik!" he mimicked.

She giggled and asked, "Is that the parrot?"

"No, he has gone to bed." Erik appeared in the corner.

"How did I do?"

"Well," he replied. "Beware of the lower notes, but the continuous improvement is noticeable. Your stage presence was better." He stared her up and down. "And I see you took my advice and let a few rays of daylight upon yourself…among other things. You appear much better."

She smiled at the stifled compliment. "Yeah. It was amazing being up there tonight again. Last time it felt like a dream. This time, I was more lucid." Slipping off her shoes, she curled up on a nearby plastic chair, letting the tingly euphoria of the night wear off.

"You asked me to meet you so I could watch you sit here?" he asked. "How delightful."

"No." She sat up straight. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking about it all."

"I saw the two boys approach you," said Erik.

"Oh. I was wearing my wedding ring and everything. Can you believe it?"

"Mm. I can shield you from that to some degree, but you might as well know that men _will_ be looking at you. You may be on the covers of magazines, tasteful ones if I have anything to do with it, and they will be looking. I am giving you some level of security for the idiots who cannot keep their grubby hands to themselves."

"Thanks…."

"And it will only worsen as you become well-known and we begin travelling," he continued. "More precautions will have to be taken."

"I'll have to leave Raoul," she murmured. "If we travel, I mean."

"Well, you are living without him on a daily basis," he replied with slight exasperation. "Surely you can stand several days away at a time."

"Oh, it's not really that. He used to go away on business occasionally, and I was fine. I mean, I had my father then. And now I would have you." She paused. "It's only that I hope Raoul is okay with it. He needs someone to make him go outside and get exercise. According to the nurses, he only agrees to go out when I'm there."

"You cannot help him staying here forever, can you?"

"No…."

"And we will only be away for shorter periods of time. The boy will survive."

"Maybe…." She smiled slightly. "And it might be kind of fun to see different cities. I haven't been to too many. You'll go sightseeing with me, won't you?"

"Yes, nothing would thrill me more than to take a fifty pound camera and wear a bright red shirt and ask ridiculous questions of the locals."

A vision formed in her mind, and she had to muffle a giggle. "No, no. But I mean, we won't just go and then you'll disappear, right?"

"I will be there. You'll see me."

She still wanted to shake his hand. Not to seal the deal. It was more like a child wanting to touch the clouds or fog—it seemed intangible and yet there was still this yearning to feel the soft grayness. After the mask incident, though, she didn't want to annoy him again.

"Well, I guess I'll head home," she said, standing. "Thanks for meeting me."

"Begin practicing the new song. We will turn our attention to it the next lesson."

"I will. Goodnight, Erik." He didn't respond, and she departed.

Before getting ready for bed that night, she stared at herself in the mirror. Still dolled up, she felt sensual and pretty. She styled her hair in different ways and stared at herself from various angles. She posed, made faces, and ran her hands down her hips. And then she blushed in embarrassment despite the fact that no one was there.

Christine washed off her makeup and put on her soft cotton pajamas. It would make sense that she'd begin to feel…_that way_ again. With Raoul injured, the absence of their sexual lives hadn't mattered too much to her. But, of course, she'd eventually begin to crave those things. She'd have to read up on different possibilities and then talk about it with him. He was well enough to begin making some progress in that area. Heavens, maybe he thought that _she_ was avoiding the topic.

He'd wanted her to visit the following evening, a rainy Wednesday. She put on a lighter shade of pink lipstick and attempted to add ringlets to her hair. The rain destroyed some of the curl. Dark blue jeans fit her legs more tightly than usual and were finished off with a pair of in-style black boots. Phillip gave her an odd smile as she walked past him to go up the stairs. Theresa was at one of her clubs, and Henry was at some political meeting.

"Hey," Raoul greeted as she walked into his room. "Wow. Where'd you come from? You didn't have a performance today, did you?"

"No, no. Nothing going on today but you." She smiled widely.

He blinked. "Oh."

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugged. "All right. Same as usual."

"No more cough?"

"No. I think it's gone."

"Good." They were both silent, his gaze traveling over her and his expression blank. Then, she leaned in and kissed him. She started out gently and then added more force, rubbing her lips against his and placing her hands behind his head to bring him closer. He was slightly responsive until she ran her hands down his back and toward his waist. Raoul gently pulled away.

"Heh. That was nice," he said, leaning back onto the pillow.

"It doesn't have to be over." She licked her lips and tried to kiss him again.

He turned his head away. "My mom's going to be home soon. I forgot to tell you. Her book meeting was cut short tonight."

"She can't hear us. Besides, we're married. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this." He didn't say anything, and she knew that it had little to do with his mother. "I don't understand," she murmured. "I thought you could still…feel those things. If you can't, let me know so I understand. You have to tell me the truth. I feel so in the dark with you sometimes."

"I feel those things. But it's…too soon."

"Well, we don't actually have to make love right now. We'll work up to it."

"Maybe not tonight." He rubbed his eyes.

"Why?"

"I…can't."

"Can't what?" Frustration was building up inside her. "Can't kiss me? Can't physically turn toward me? Do you need help?"

"No."

"Then what is it? Are you not attracted to me?"

"Of course I'm attracted to you!" he exclaimed with a scowl. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Look at _you_!" He gestured to her. "But Jesus Christ, look at _me_, Christine! You're getting prettier every day, and I'm falling apart. What is this going to look like?"

"There are plenty of ways to--"

"I know that! But I can't feel very in the mood when the whole thing starts looking like a freak show!"

"It's not a freak show. You are not the only person on earth in a wheelchair," she said in an even voice. "I've been reading so many things about people who have overcome—"

"I don't care about them, all right? I don't want to be the guy in the Wheelchair Olympics! I want everything I had back, all right? I want to dance with you! I want to pick you up and carry you to bed like I did on our wedding night! Hell, I'd settle for going on a normal walk through the goddamned park with you! " He abruptly sat up. "Maybe it is all back, you think? Maybe I should just try. We haven't tried, Chris. Why haven't we tried?" He began to shift toward the side of the bed that was opposite of her.

Her eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"Getting up."

"Raoul, don't. You'll hurt yourself." Heart pounding, she started to jump up and run to the other side.

"Don't," he said. "Stay back for a moment. Please. I'm going to do this." He managed to swing his lower body toward the edge and prepared to push himself up.

"Raoul! Stop it!" She took a giant leap toward him, but it was too late. He thrust himself off the bed and immediately crumpled with a loud thud to the carpeted floor. Christine ran to his side right as Phillip threw open the door.

"What is going on up—?" His mouth fell open, and he ran to his younger brother's side. "Holy crap! What happened?"

"I'm fine," said Raoul between breaths. He was now lying on his side, propped up on one elbow and staring at the rug. "It was me being stupid. I wanted to…never mind. Forget it. Don't tell Mom."

"Yeah, like I'm dumb enough to tell Mom about this," Phillip replied, quickly examining Raoul for injuries. "Come on. I'll get you back up there. Give me a hand, Christine."

Hands trembling, she silently reached under his arms as Phillip took his legs, helping to pull her husband back onto the bed.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" asked Phillip. "Better tell me now so we can deal with it."

"I'm _fine._"

"So what the hell happened?" He looked between them.

"I said I was being stupid," said Raoul. "Let's leave it at that."

"Fine." Phillip held up his hands in surrender and then glanced toward Christine. "Maybe you should still get out of here before Mom gets home. She has this way of knowing when something's wrong."

"I will," she whispered.

Phillip shook his head and left them alone.

Raoul slowly looked up at her, his face red. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought…maybe…."

She swallowed the thickness in her throat. "I know." Christine walked over beside him, wrapping her arms around him as he momentarily pressed his face against her stomach. The thickness traveled down to become an ache in her stomach. She didn't know what to say now. _Powerless._

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"I know," she said. "Forget it. Let's not talk about it tonight."

They stayed in a silent, pained embrace until Theresa came home. Christine managed to run to her car before she started crying. She was also able to refrain from dialing the precious emergency number. Instead, she waited until her lesson the following night and arrived ten minutes early, arms curled up around her weary body. She'd barely gotten any sleep and was completely on edge.

"The grimace on your face indicates some new problem tonight," Erik wryly stated, startling her. "Now what's wrong?"

"Can we not sing?" she asked, walking toward him with nearly outstretched hands. "Can we talk?"

"We must begin the new song as soon as possible. It will require more effort than the previous."

She closed her eyes. "Please, Erik. I can't sing right now. I'm so upset."

He sighed. "Fine. Talk. What is wrong with you?"

"There's a room next door with tables and chairs. Let's go there."

"_Why?_"

She stared at the floor, beginning to feel small and insignificant. "Because I want to have a real conversation with you. And it's awkward in here."

He threw up his hands. "Hell. Fine. This better be a complete emergency. Is Katrina back from the dead for round two? It'd better be _that _damned good for us to waste this much time."

She went into the room next door and flipped on the lights, revealing a meeting table and chairs. A small fridge hummed in the corner, and there was a coffee pot and filled water cooler on the counter. Erik remained in the dark hallway and eyed the setting. "Come in," she murmured, giving him a small, close-lipped smile.

Erik took a very slow step into the room and then stood still in the entryway—as though to give her an opportunity to adjust to his appearance under the brighter lights. It did take her a moment. He was dressed in black with his bony, pale hands in plain view. The suit hung loosely over his skinny frame, and the artificiality of his face was even more apparent beneath the black hat. And he was so tall…and commanding.

"Do you want any water?" she asked, diverting her gaze and walking to the cylindrical cooler.

"No." He strode inside and slowly sat on one side, folding his hands atop the table and leaning forward with an irritated glint in his eyes. "Now what is it?"

She filled a paper cup of water for herself, hesitated, and then also filled a cup for Erik. He didn't say anything as she placed it in front of him and then sat down on the opposite side. Now that she was sitting across from him on even ground, it was a little intimidating. Still, she held herself together. "How are you tonight?" she softly asked.

"How am I?"He glanced around the room as though disgusted. "I am sitting at a cheap table with water that is likely days old. And you, my dear, won't have a problem with theatre considering all the drama you're shoving into this little setup. We could be preparing for triumph and sipping fine wine. Now out with it, girl!"

Folding her hands atop the table, she managed not to flinch. "Fine. I want to know how we're going to save my husband. Specifically."

"I have explained that to you," he snapped.

"You've said I'll make enough money to care for him. But you never said how he's going to walk again. How will that happen? I…." She swallowed and wiped away a tear. "He got upset and tried to walk the other night. Of course, he couldn't. He pushed himself off the bed and fell. And all I could do was watch. I couldn't save him, Erik. I can't help him by myself."

"Why must you save anyone?" he asked with less malice, leaning back into the chair. "Why doesn't he save himself?"

"He can't," she murmured. "He doesn't know how. Please. Tell me the truth. I want to know if he can walk again."

"First, you will tell me the truth. If he stood up and walked, would you drop all of this now?"

"What?"

"If he were healed tomorrow morning, would you cease singing and return to your former suburban paradise? Would that be the end of your singing career?"

She blinked and stared at her hands as she thought it over. "Well…I'd certainly take time off to celebrate. I'd run around the block with him in joy. But…."

"But what?" His arms were crossed.

"But I don't know if I…if I could just leave this now. I sort of like singing…and the stage. I finally feel like I'm…something."

He stared at her for a moment before speaking. "As you likely know, there are no magical destinations of healing. If they existed, people would be lined up out the door. No. You will have to travel the world every time there is a breakthrough. Some of it will be a hoax, and some of it will have promise. You will have money to explore every opportunity, but years may pass before you find your miracle. And that is the truth."

She slowly nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "You're exactly right. That's what we'll do. Travel until we find something. And, after traveling with you to sing, I'll be really good at it. I won't get confused about directions and drive the wrong way and everything."

He snorted. "Exactly."

Christine nodded, feeling at peace again. She loved her husband, but she now felt too weak for him. She was always terrified of saying the wrong thing…of being unable to physically take care of him…of hurting him in more than one way.

But Erik. She couldn't hurt Erik. He seemed unbreakable, and he made her feel safe. He brought stability to the chaos that had become her life.

"I want to travel," she said. "I want to sing and travel all the time. Raoul's eyes plead with me to help him, and all I do is fail him. So, Erik, I'll do whatever you say we need to do. I'll go anywhere and sing anything. I trust you. You're kind of my best friend right now. I know you only want to be business partners, but you're…more. And I'll do what you want me to do. Just please, please stay."

Erik stared at her with his head tilted to the side. He stared at her so long that she began to squirm in the chair as she wondered what he was thinking. A soft chuckle finally emerged from behind the mask, and he uncrossed his arms. He leaned in and held up his paper cup as though to toast. "To you, my strange songbird. I fail to understand you half the time, but you manage to frame things in odd but delectable ways. To your success."

She smiled in relief and held up her cup. "To us, Erik. To _our_ success. That's the only way this could ever be…."

He laughed again. "To us, then. _Nothing _will stand in our way."


	16. Chapter 16

For the holidays, I'm giving you some E/Cness and development in that area. I wouldn't quite call it fluff, but it's a bit softer. We'll get back into more plot next chapter. Thank you to all those who continue to leave their wonderful comments; I'm glad everyone is enjoying this Erik. He's a pleasure to write. I hope everyone is enjoying the season with their family and friends. Happy New Year!

A big thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Enjoy**!!!

He'd had the mirror across from his bed removed because he didn't like looking at himself, telling them it was cracked. She hadn't noticed.

_Weak. Pathetic. Nothing._

A door creaked open downstairs; he'd become skilled at identifying every sound in the house. Not that it'd help him in an emergency. If thieves ever invaded, he'd be screwed. Maybe they'd decide he was too helpless to even waste a bullet on.

Footsteps.

_Her_ footsteps. A smile crossed his lips.

He still loved her more than anything in the world. She was that only bit of light in his life these days, a ray of sun creeping through the bars of the prison that his body had become.

Yet every day, she slipped away. It was hard to even talk to her now; he always ended up hurting or disappointing her. The best he could do was reminding her of those happy, carefree days of the past—days when he could be a man for her. How could he share her optimism when it seemed like everything was slowly crumbling to pieces?

She was coming into his room. She smiled, but he could read her eyes. Pity intermingled with the love.

Did she still love him?

Yes, but how did someone love a pathetic invalid forever? Especially as she continued to blossom…._Why had she changed so much?_

She was smiling; she said something about the weather. _Warm. Humid._

She was so beautiful—an Angel. Blonde hair loosely curled at the ends. Those blue eyes that he'd always adored. A light shade of rose lipstick. A tight black sweater emphasizing her figure. He missed the feel of her soft skin rubbing up against him during the night and her soft breathing when she slept. He missed her sighs and moans and her long hair splayed out across his bare chest. And he missed her sweet pillow talk, how she could chatter without gossiping. He felt too pathetic to be worth any of that now.

She leaned down to kiss him on the lips, a hand running through his hair and down his cheek. The bland taste of expensive lipstick lingered afterwards. She'd used to only wear lip gloss—a strawberry flavor that he preferred. The kiss made him miss everything else even more; it was almost torture, which is why he never allowed it to go on for long.

The same question: "How are you?"

The same answer: "Fine."

Empty conversation continued, both of them avoiding the things that needed to be said…the tears…the frustration…. None of that would help anyway. He could scream at the top of his lungs and pound his fists against the wall, and he still wouldn't walk.

He silently begged God to fix him. He'd never take anything for granted again_. I'll cherish every moment with her, give her everything she wants. I'll donate to every charity out there. I'll volunteer at the homeless shelter. I'll do anything. Just give me my old life back. Please, please, please, please, please…._

He tried to move his leg for proof that the prayer was answered. He couldn't. _Shit._

She was leaving now. But she'd be back.

She'd always come back with the promise that she would eventually save him. That dreamy glint would enter her eyes as she spoke of their future…as though she were in possession of some great secret.

An Angel.

_An Intruder. _Somewhere, deep in his heart and mind, he knew someone else had crept into her life.

Not necessarily romantic or sexual; he didn't believe she'd betray him in that way.

But someone was…_there…_giving her things that he couldn't give her…giving her hope.

It didn't matter; she was still an angel.

* * *

Once Christine started dressing up to go out, it was difficult to stop. People treated her with more respect. Sales clerks gave her more personalized attention when she went into stores. Even though she was trembling on the inside half the time, at least she looked good on the outside.

The next few weeks held several more performances. As promised, Erik met her after every one with his praise and critiques. She occasionally visited Raoul to check his health and to take him outside for a few hours. He was grateful but somewhat quiet, and they directed their conversation away from anything concerning the accident or his paralysis. She no longer forced him into doing activities that made him upset like going to restaurants or movies. The only thing that would make her husband happy would be to walk again. And, until she could offer that to him, anything else she did was futile.

Her first paid performance finally arrived. It was for a conference and dinner party.

"Nothing more than a room full of rich investors stuffing their faces with food that should kill them within the next ten years," said Erik during one of their lessons. "But people will know that they cannot hear you for free. Your voice now has a price."

Approaching the microphone that night, Christine could tell by their stern faces that they expected more. They would not be so forgiving if she were terrible. Judgment would be passed.

Erik's voice was immediately in her ear. "Smile. Breathe. Pretend that they are nothing."

She sang a more mature ballad that Erik assured wouldn't overwhelm her. Christine ignored the expressions of the audience during her song, knowing that one frown or grimace might completely throw her off. When it was over, she closed her eyes. Loud applause followed, and she slowly opened her lids. There were smiles. Honest, appreciative smiles. "What a lovely girl," said an old woman with white gloves and a flower in her hat.

After she stepped off the stage, she was momentarily confused by the unfamiliar building. _Erik. Where was Erik?_

"Mrs. Chagny?"

She turned toward the unfamiliar voice that possessed a slight southern drawl. A middle-aged man with a moustache and thinning brown hair was standing there, dressed in a suit that was slightly too large for his frame.

"Yes?" she asked, still disoriented.

"How are you tonight? You did a marvelous job up there. I haven't heard anything quite like it in some time."

"Thank you." She smiled but kept her distance.

"I'd like to talk to you about your voice. I think you've got something there. Something good."

"Um. I could take your number."

"Well, I'm leaving the city tonight, sweetheart. I'd like to talk to you now. Maybe over coffee? This is a real opportunity. You don't want to pass it up."

"I…."

"_Leave him." _Erik's voice was harsh.

She nodded. "I have to go. I'm sorry." She turned and headed down the nearest hallway.

"Mrs. Chagny, I don't think you realize what you're giving up. Let me give you my card." Her heart jumped as he started to follow her, and she increased her pace.

A yelp sounded out, and Christine turned back around. The man was half-sitting, half-lying on the carpet, clutching his ankle with his face contorted in pain. She hesitated, wondering if he needed help. What a weird place to fall down.

"Leave him," Erik repeated in her ear. "Go down the nearest hall and enter the room two doors down on your right. Close the door."

When she arrived at the destination, a little lobby, she took a deep breath. Perspiration had formed on her face, and her heart was pounding. Erik arrived within seconds and closed the door behind him. Ever since they had sat across from each other that one evening, he allowed her to have a full view of him. She was getting used to his tall black form—although she still wondered what was behind that mask.

"I wasn't sure whether he could help us--"she began.

"I'll take care of those arrangements. If I want you to talk to someone, you'll know it. That idiot owns a string of second rate night clubs."

"Oh." She softly laughed. "That was weird how he tripped liked that."

"Wasn't it?"

"Do you think he's okay?"

"He'll be perfectly fine. Now onto something else. You did very well tonight. Your best yet. And now is the time, I believe, to turn our focus toward music that is original. Mine to be exact. You singing my music—that is where true success lies."

He handed her several sheets, and she excitedly took them. First, she glanced over the notes, humming them beneath her breath. The song was slow and somber but with a wide range, one of those that would send a chill down the spine if sung correctly. "Oh, this is going to sound lovely," she murmured. Then, she looked at the lyrics and frowned. "But Erik, these words are a little…dark."

He chuckled "Yes, I thought you'd see them like that. Presumably, most of the public would. I suppose I should write about kittens."

"Well, no. But this is about someone drinking…himself or herself to death. And I just…I don't approve."

"The Devil forbid I offend your moral sensibilities. I thought I'd merely show it to you. I'm working on another version with difference lyrics. More dull…generic…yet much more publically appealing."

"What's the other one about?"

"Simply semi-romantic…drivel."

She smiled "Well, romance is nice. I'd like to see them."

"_Nice._ Yes, that is what I was striving for. Not magnificent. Not provocative. But nice." He said "nice" as though it were a bad word. "But this is why it is all rather convenient. Your opinion will match the rest. If you find something vulgar or disturbing, I can suppose the rest of the world will, too."

She glanced back at the lyrics. "Erik, is this person trying to kill…themselves?" She still couldn't tell whether the person was a male or female.

"Oh, the person is not really _trying_ to," Erik replied with so much indifference that he sounded like he was discussing the weather. "The individual doesn't care, I suppose. And nothing else makes them feel good."

"But that's so sad. Why can't something else make him…or her feel good?" It was upsetting her more than it should have, but they were so horribly depressing. If these lyrics were ever played on the radio, the suicide rate in the country would multiply times a hundred.

"Calm down," Erik rasped. "It is a song concerning self-destruction brought on by blind idealism, and you obviously lack the maturity to understand it. Give them back to me." He held out an impatient hand.

She handed him back the music, a sting in her heart. "Well, I'm sorry I'm stupid."

"I did not say you were stupid, did I? You simply allow your passions to crush your rational thoughts." He sighed and nearly crumpled the music sheets in his hand. "Sometimes I believe the world would be a better place if emotion was completely eradicated. But then we wouldn't be able to profit off the feelings your voice and my music evokes in people, and so that wouldn't be productive either, would it? No. There is a hell of a lot of money to be made on people's _feelings_. Money that will eventually get your boy walking again, won't it?"

She was still staring at the floor, unable to respond. Never had anyone had the power to make her feel so warm one moment and so cold the next.

"Never let anyone say you are stupid."

She looked up in surprise. _Warm again._

"Let's move onto something sensible," he quickly continued. "Your security. You'll have hired bodyguards at times, but there is only one individual who is very aware of me. The head of much of it. He's a former police officer. A Mr. Nadir Khan. And he is the only one I somewhat trust."

She glanced up. "You're friends with a policeman?"

"Oh, yes," he stated. "Like anyone, I highly value the contributions that law enforcement makes to society. Why if not for officers like Mr. Khan, criminals would be running around freely doing all sorts of wicked things."

"That's right," she agreed, unsure of his tone.

"Anyhow, we'll have your first night away soon."

"Away?"

"Yes. To Jacksonville. It is a competition, and it will be less stressful for you to stay the night. And it will give me ample time to promote you. There will be several people of interest present."

"A competition?" Her heart jumped, and that familiar ache formed in her stomach.

"Yes. You are ready."

"All right," she whispered. He said it with such certainty that she could only believe him.

"Pack a small bag with all your feminine necessities. I will take care of the arrangements."

They parted soon afterwards. As she walked to her car in the dark, somehow able to sense that he was keeping an eye on her, she realized that this was all really happening. Erik was making it happen faster than she could have imagined. There had even been a tiny article about her in the paper the other day, announcing her as "a rising star that came out of nowhere."

She was honest with Raoul the next time she saw him. "I have to go away and sing for a night. It won't be that long."

"All right," he replied, his only visible reaction a slight twitch of his lips. "Good luck. I know you'll be great."

"There might be other times when I'll have to go away for longer," she continued, wringing her hands. "I want you to remember to get exercise and get out of the house. Not just with me."

"Okay."

"I mean it. You can't lie in bed day after day even when I have to leave." It was hard for her to look at him; tears would fill her eyes. He was thin. And frail. It was strange because Erik was also painfully skinny, and yet he somehow seemed strong.

"I said I won't." And then he asked so softly that she could barely hear him, "Promise you'll keep coming back?"

She flinched. "What kind of question is that? Of course I'll come back! I'm doing this for us!"

"For us?"

"Yes, for us! I'm going to get us out of here."

"Christine…." He looked down.

"Yes?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "Good luck. You'll be wonderful."

"Thank you." She leaned down and kissed him. "I love you. Just…stay strong."

As she departed, she saw Theresa standing in the hall, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Christine merely walked by her, cringing as she heard Theresa speaking to Raoul from behind.

"I wonder why she's decided to dress up so much suddenly. How strange. You'd think she was going somewhere important. Oh well, dear, let's get started on that movie."

* * *

It was not merely a selfless act now. Christine was beginning to enjoy her slow ascension to fame. _He_ could see the brightness in her eyes…the way she talked about her performances. She was not merely singing for her husband; she was singing for herself.

For her first trip out of her home city, he chose to ride with her. While he wouldn't do so every time because of security reasons, she required constant reassurance this time. He hired a driver, not for a limousine but a fancier car nonetheless. There was a barrier between the driver's seat and backseat. For now, he felt secure enough with the lasso in one pocket and a nonmetallic explosive device in the other. According to Nadir, no one was aware of his presence, but one could never be too careful.

He'd picked her up at the music complex where she stood holding only her purse and a small black travel bag. She was now sitting beside the window on the opposite side. Outside of a strand of hair falling into her face, she looked…quite well. Anne had done a decent job of pulling her appearance together, making her graceful and feminine—a star. Of course, there was still that bothersome forlorn expression that often appeared.

"He looked so sad," she murmured, staring out the window. "I didn't know what to do."

"Nothing you can do about that now," He tried to redirect her attention from Chagny. "I've reserved your suite. I think you will enjoy it."

"A suite? Just a little room would have been fine…."

"No. It is time you had a taste of success."

"Thanks, Erik. I haven't had one of those since my honeymoon." Her face scrunched up again. "God, that seems like forever ago."

Why did that idiot always have to depress her? It'd damn well better not affect her performance.

He turned away, and there was silence for several minutes.

And then, out of nowhere, "Someone called me Melanie. What does that mean?"

He wondered what in the hell she was talking about until his eyes settled on a passing billboard announcing _Gone with the Wind._ Some dinner theatre that specialized in classic movies was having a big showing. "Why would they come up with that?"

"When I was twelve, I was in a costume shop with our neighbors, this woman and her daughter who was a couple years older than me. My dad didn't have time to take me for Halloween, and I needed a costume. Somehow they got into a conversation about it, and my dad decided it'd be a good idea for me to go with them. I don't know why; they weren't that nice. But maybe he didn't know that. Anyway, the mother found this southern belle dress, and she said, 'Get Chrissy a wig, and she can go as Scarlett from _Gone with the Wind._' And then the daughter said, 'No way. Chrissy'll never be like Scarlett.' And her mother said, 'You're right. She's definitely the Melanie, isn't she?' Then they giggled, and the mother patted me on the head. I felt stupid asking them what they meant or telling them I'd never seen the movie…."

He felt like tracking them down and hanging them for coming up with such idiocy.

"Erik, what does it mean?"

"She was likely implying that you were agreeable...pleasant."

"Oh! That's better than being Scarlett, then, isn't it? She wasn't very nice, right?"

He waved his hand. "What is this nonsense? One ends up dead; the other ends up alone. You're not either. You're Christine."

"Oh." She paused. "Yeah, I don't want to be either. But I'd rather be dead than completely alone.

"What the _hell _is wrong with you to say something like that?"

"I hate being alone…."

"There is freedom in being alone," he nearly snapped. "There is no responsibility for anyone but yourself. And you would not be forced to consort with morons who compare you to fictional characters. Imagine that! Imagine being burdened by no one."

"But I don't want to be alone…."

"Well, you are not," he stated, regaining his composure. It was annoying that she brought him to that level of anger. "You have a husband and Anne and all that. So stop fretting over it."

"And you," she nearly muttered. He didn't say anything. She stared out the window a few more moments, and he slowly began to relax. And then: "Erik? What's your favorite movie?"

"I don't have one." He thought his drab response would kill the conversation.

"Me neither!" she exclaimed with a smile. "People always ask me what my favorite book or movie is, and I never know what to say. It changes with my mood. Except…when I was little, I loved _Charlotte's Web_. My copy was so worn out because I read it at least once a month. And I told my dad not to kill spiders anymore, but he did it behind by back, I think."

"Likely to prevent necrosis."

"Huh? Anyway, that was one of my favorite books when I was a kid." She tilted her head in thought and then added, "Except it made me angry when Fern paid less attention to the animals just because she grew up. If I had all those lovely animals when I was little, I would have made Raoul buy a farm. You can grow up, get married, and take care of the animals."

She was some strange foreign creature. And now she was relaxed back into the seat, staring at him and waiting for a reply. _That was it._ She was utterly relaxed. And he was used to people being on constant guard around him. Generally, he preferred it that way; he preferred the nervous tension because it meant no one would dare cross him.

It would be easy to instill fear in her again. A few quick threats or harsh words while he loomed above her—that's all it would take to scare the holy hell out of someone like her. But all he said was, _"_Perhaps with your new wealth you can purchase a couple of hundred acres." Farm life sounded wretched to him, but if it motivated her….

"Oh no," she murmured. "I wouldn't know how to take care of anything like Fern. I'm going to have to take care of Raoul. And that's it. No pets or farm animals or children. But that'll be fine."

"Ah."

The rest of the drive was quiet, save for her occasional comments concerning the places they passed, such as finding a moth in her salad at one of the restaurants. She even slept part of the way. His composure wasn't threatened again. Actually, the remainder of the trip was fairly serene. While he disliked most chatter, for whatever reason, he could endure it with her.

"Retrieve your key and go to your room," he said when they arrived at the hotel entrance. "Dress. In one hour, meet the car out here. I may or may not be present, but the driver will take you where you need to be. You may call the number if you have any difficulties."

She gripped her purse strap and opened the door. "All…right."

"You will be fine."

After seeing her find her way safely inside, he dialed Nadir. It took four rings before he answered. "Hello?"

"Are you where you're supposed to be?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Good. You'll keep an eye on her room tonight…ensure sure no one has any interest in her. I'll have other matters to attend to regarding her career. I cannot be everywhere at once."

"That sounds simple enough," Nadir replied.

"It is. And there is less of a chance for you to screw it up, no? I…." The phone beeped, which indicated a message. "I will call you back after the performance. You had better answer." He hung up and checked the message. Naturally, it was her.

"Hi, Erik. Could you please call me? Thanks."

Slightly alarmed, he did so.

"Hello?"

"It is me, girl. What is wrong with you?"

"Oh, the room is so beautiful!" she exclaimed. "There're bottles of waters and soda in the cabinets and my very own bathrobe. And fuzzy slippers! It has to be too expensive!"

"It is fine for a night," he said. "Did you call only to tell me this?"

"No. I um…I need a Band-Aid, and there aren't any of those in the room."

His eye twitched. "Why do you need a bandage?"

"I stabbed myself on a pair of scissors."

"And how did you accomplish that? Why are you in possession of scissors?"

"You just never know when you'll need them," she said. "And tonight there was this tag I didn't see on my dress. So I had to get if off. And, when I was digging in my purse to find them, I grabbed them the wrong way and…."

"How severe is your injury?"

"There's some blood," she softly replied. "I don't want to get it on my dress."

He sighed. "I'll have someone send up a medical kit."

"Thanks. Erik?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes?"

"I'm having a great time. We'll travel more, right?"

"Yes, yes." He hid his delight. "Everywhere."

"That's wonderful. I…." There was a pause. "Oh, I have to go. Raoul is calling."

The boy was going to depress her right before the performance. "Fine. Meet me out here at the designated time. I have put a great deal of effort into tonight, and I expect you to be prepared and punctual. "

"I will. See you soon!"

An hour or so later, she emerged in a white chiffon dress with that came down to her ankles. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore dangling diamond earrings. The bandage on her right index finger added an amusing accessory. The frown on her lips was not so thrilling.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. Henry isn't feeling well, I guess. They're running some tests."

_Hell. _"Are you going to be capable of performing?"

She looked up without a pause. "Yes. There's nothing I can do. Except sing. I want to stay here."

"Good." He glanced over her. "The tag is still on your dress."

"Oh no. I forgot about it when…." She sighed in exasperation and started to rapidly dig through her purse. "I bet the stupid scissors are still in the room, too."

"Stop before you cut yourself again." With a flick of his wrist, he took out a small switchblade. Two gold scorpions decked the silver handle on each side, their eyes red rubies. He'd stolen the knife from a wealthy victim, and it was one of his more beloved prizes. "Do _not_ move." He brought the blade near to her hip. In one motion, he sliced through the thick white string and removed the irritating tag.

Her eyes were now glued to the knife, and she slowly reached out a finger to touch one of the rubies. He folded in the blade and quickly tucked it back into his pocket. "No. You will not touch it." He gestured to her injury. "I do not wish for a nine-fingered singer."

"Very funny." She paused. "Where did you get that?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? I collect this and that over the years…."

"Oh." Seemingly satisfied with the explanation, she smoothed out her dress. Unfolding a backseat mirror from the ceiling, she studied herself from several angles. "How do I look?"

"Perfectly fine. Professional."

She laughed for a reason he didn't understand. "All right, then." She clasped her hands together. "I'm so nervous and excited. But more…excited tonight, I think. I've never felt like this…giddy almost."

He watched her as they passed beneath the streetlights. Profitability aside, there was something oddly gratifying about seeing her like this. More confident…alive. The dying glint in her eyes had faded.

She didn't know it, but he was freeing her. When it was over, he would depart with his fortune, and she would depart with her new found power. It was an unintended result, but he found that he enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed writing the music. _His creations._

She was watching him, too. He turned away to look toward the front seat, prepared to turn on the speaker and give the driver careful instructions. Even after he did so, she continued to watch him.

He disliked stares. "What?" he finally snapped.

"Sorry. Nothing," she muttered, looking away with a tint of red in her cheeks.

He brushed the incident aside and focused on ensuring that the night was perfect. Life had made him too emotionally blind to see the fatal flaw that had begun to weave its way into his carefully crafted plans.


	17. Chapter 17

Hello all! Hope you're having a good 2010. My condolences to anyone who has been affected by the Haiti disaster in any way.

The next several chapters are going to increase in intensity. There is some adult content toward the end of this one but nothing descriptive. I thank you all for your wonderful comments. And a big thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Enjoy!!!**

She placed second in the competition.

At least Christine knew she was up there with the best of them. Still, it was a small chink in the perfection that she'd come to expect. A guy around her age won after he did a pop song and included a smooth dance that made the women in the audience "ooh" and "aah." He was suited like a gangster from the 1930's, and now Christine wondered if she should have worn some type of costume.

As she left that night, she saw the winner furiously rubbing his back and buttocks up against the wall. "Would someone scratch me?" he hollered. "I'm on fire! Someone scratch me!" Several of his friends had surrounded him but kept their distance, helplessly watching as the guy dropped to the floor and began to furiously rub himself against the tiles.

She also kept her distance. _Showbiz people were really weird. _

"Erik…." She greeted him as she climbed into the car afterwards, thankful that he would escort her to the hotel. Her night would have been sleepless without his opinion.

"He won only because of his physical appeal; four out of five of the judges were female. His voice was nowhere near yours. He sang like a dying chicken."

"Oh…."

"_But_--he had more stage presence than you. He engaged the audience, and that is something you must learn to do."

"Well, I am trying. What else would I do?"

"Make them want you. Make them think they will _die_ without you."

She awkwardly laughed. "And just how do I make them want me?"

He shook his head and turned away. "Forget this. We will discuss it later. I am going to make some phone calls to promote you for the rest of the evening. You may go to your room and rest. Enjoy yourself."

"That sounds easy enough."

When they arrived at the lit-up entrance of the hotel, she thanked him and started to leave, head swimming with exhaustion.

"Do not forget this," said Erik. He held up her purse. "Unless you wish me to go on a spending spree with your boy's money. I would enjoy a private jet."

His hand was right there holding the purse out to her by its short strap. She couldn't resist brushing her hand against his fingers as she took it. And he was very real. Christine blinked. "Your skin is cold."

He quickly handed her the purse and withdrew. "I am aware."

"You're not sick, right?"

The slight glare in his eyes faded. "Of course not. It is nothing but a circulation issue."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"Hah! Yes, I have nothing better to do with my time than sit there and be poked by some moron right out of med school. I am perfectly healthy. Now would you kindly hush up about the matter? Enjoy your evening. Meet the car out front at nine." He waved her away.

"If you ever need anything, let me know," she said, climbing out.

"I need you to sing."

"Well…if you ever stab _your_ finger on scissors, you could call me."

"I would saw off the injured finger before I wore one of those ridiculous bandages. It does not even match your dress."

"Well, I'll find you a nice black one. Night, Erik!" She jumped out with a grin before he could give her another sarcastic reply, glad that she had lightened the mood.

Face warm, she took the elevator up to her room and truly enjoyed herself. She watched a few romantic movies while wearing her plush robe and eating European chocolate. She stretched out on the queen-sized bed, letting her hair down. A few creaks from the ceiling indicated that some people were in the room above her. It was comforting rather than annoying, having others nearby. A hot shower ended her night, and she slept soundly and dreamlessly.

To her disappointment, Erik didn't meet her in the car the following morning. Under the bright sunlight, the world seemed a little less glamorous than it had last evening the evening, the buildings older and the people grimmer. During the ride, Christine switched back and forth between staring at the empty seat beside her and watching out the window.

Thinking that today was Theresa's book club day, she drove to the Chagny house later that afternoon. The door was locked, and so she started to dig in her purse for a key. Before she could find it, the door was unlocked and cracked open. Theresa's head poked out, and Christine nearly stepped backwards, heart pounding. They coldly stared at each other for several seconds before Christine finally spoke. "I'm here to see Raoul. And to check on Henry."

Theresa ran her tongue over her lips. "Now isn't a good time. They're both resting."

She'd never been refused entry. "I want to see my husband."

"No. Not today. Raoul is sleeping."

Christine took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. "Then should I come back tomorrow?"

"I don't know yet. I'll have to see how they're feeling."

"Why don't you let Raoul decide for himself?" she angrily asked, face flushing. "You can't not let me see him! He's my husband!"

"Quit making a scene. This is my home. I have to do what's best for everyone. You're not the only one with needs, dear. Now come back another time."

Christine's mouth hung open as the door was closed on her. With horror, she realized that Henry's possible illness put her mother-in-law in complete power. Phillip couldn't be there all the time, and Raoul was too weak to fight back.

Feeling her stomach turn, she unsteadily walked back to her car. She drove in circles through the wealthy neighborhood for several minutes, trying to think of some solution, before finally driving back home. Surely she had some rights, but the thought of getting a lawyer involved made her even more nervous. How was she supposed to handle this all by herself?

_I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. _

And then, that evening, she realized her answer. It was the same answer that it'd been for months.

* * *

Through a thirty-minute telephone conference,_ he'd_ nearly secured a recording agreement. It was a medium-sized firm, and he could negotiate the terms to his liking. He'd have to do his own form of investigation before he closed the deal, but it was a promising start.

His fists had clenched when Christine was denied first place. A heat had welled up inside him, a stronger anger than he could have anticipated. He envisioned the _crack_ of the first placed winner's neck. Or maybe the crunch of bones as the no-talent fool was beaten to death with his own trophy.

Fortunately, the destruction of Professor Buquet's house over a decade ago had taught him that acts done in blind hatred nearly ended up getting one arrested. In contrast, all his planned, detached hits had gone smoothly—and had been financially well worth his time.

In the end, he just added a bit of special powder to the pants and shirt that the winner would eventually change into after the show. Once the idiot put them on, he would certainly dance--right to the cooling cream section of the local pharmacy. It was just for fun. _He_ needed to keep himself amused in these tense times--to keep things light. That girl always had him on edge, and even whiskey wasn't enough to relax him these recent nights.

Since Anne, no one had ever edged so close to him, both physically and conversationally. Her emotional requirements had taken him off guard. Keeping her at a distance wasn't working; she didn't handle boundaries well. To his self-disgust, he wasn't handling any of it well. It was as though…as though he wasn't even sure what to do with her outside of singing lessons. Did he merely hold up his side of conversations as though this were entirely normal? Did he ignore her when he wasn't instructing her, merely allowing her to chatter on by herself? She wanted to be friends….

_Friends._ What the hell was a friend anyway? Someone who used you until they didn't need you? Someone to use? Family wasn't any better….

He had never seen or met his father. After hacking into some state records, he'd discovered his mother's personal information. Years ago, he'd ventured to her current address out of a curiosity that he couldn't ignore. She was sitting out front on a concrete porch step with an infant in her arms and another small boy playing in a turtle sandbox. She had still been very young, and he knew she'd only been about fifteen when giving birth to _him._

He could practically hear the small community's words to her at the time of his birth. _Well, there's the Good Lord's punishment for fornication. A baby with the face of a demon. _It was no wonder he'd been given up for adoption before he was six months old.

An expression of apathy remained on her face as her child played at her feet, her blank black eyes staring into the distance. Her motions were mechanical as she held a bottle to her baby's mouth. The home was tiny and shabby, the white paint chipping and several shingles missing. Her blouse and skirt were faded and worn, and her frizzy dark curls were in a messy bun. He didn't hate her.

He was indifferent to her. Indifferent was how he felt toward his assumed half-siblings. Indifferent was how he felt toward everyone. Hatred was generally a waste of time. An even earlier lesson taught him that love was a waste of time _and_ energy. Foolish men drove themselves insane with both. And look at how much _he'd _accomplished without either?

After returning from Christine's competition, he set to work perfecting the words to the other version of his composition. Well, not perfecting; they were completely ridiculous. Generic…fluff. But that was what the world wanted, didn't it? Either a tied up happy ending or a dramatic tragedy. No ambiguity. Christine hadn't even understood that the individual in his other version survived at the end.

_Speak of the Devil. _Just as he finished that evening, his phone beeped, indicating an emergency message.

Of course he checked it. _Perhaps she stabbed herself on a toothpick this time. _

"Erik? It's me. My mother-in-law won't let me in her house, and no one else can help me. I don't know what to do. What if she never lets me in? Should I call the police? I don't want to; they'll probably think this isn't a real emergency. Should I get a lawyer?" Her voice was panicked. "Oh, please help me."

He rolled his eyes. It was honestly time to put an end to this matter. He called her. "Where are you?"

"My home…."

"Is anyone there?"

"No…. I haven't called anyone else yet. Should I get Anne?"

"_No._ Stay there."

Later, it annoyed him later that he didn't even think twice about going. It was a natural reaction, coming to her rescue. After parking his car on a discreet corner in her neighborhood and making some alterations to his 'specialized' license plate, he hopped over her wooden fence and knocked on her backdoor.

She answered, wearing jeans and a ruffled sweatshirt. Tears were streaking her cheeks. "Erik? Why'd you come through the back?"

"The front door bores me."

"Oh." Without any hesitation, she stepped to the side, and he took a slow step into her home. It was everything you'd expect. Matching cherry wood furniture. A white rug. China dishes that no one ever used. Suburbia at its finest. The only quirk was that it wasn't entirely clean. There were crumbs on the carpet and some dust layering the furniture…a few dishes in the sink. He rather liked it that way.

"Erik?" She was looking up at him.

"Calm down," he said. "She is nothing, you understand? _Nothing._ She is a pathetic idiot who can do you no harm."

"But what can I do?" she hoarsely asked. "Run past her into the house? Sue her?"

"I will resolve it now. Give me your phone." She did so. His little songbird had appeared so promising the previous evening. And now…she looked like she belonged in the suicidal ward of the crazy house.

He found the Chagny household number in her directory and dialed. To his delight, the bitch immediately answered. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Mrs. Chagny." For now, he kept a calm but eerie voice. Christine leaned into listen, approaching a bit too close to his face. He left her alone, though.

The woman paused. "Who's this?"

"I am, you would say, the representative for Christine Chagny."

"A representative? Like a…lawyer?"

"You heard me. We are encountering a minor situation here. Perhaps a mere misunderstanding? Are you holding your son against his will?"

"Of course not! My son was in a serious accident! He's very sick and can't leave the house!"

"Then why will you now allow his wife to visit him there?"

"Because…."She cleared her throat. "He's too sick today. And I have a right to say who goes in and out of my house! I can't believe that little skank got a lawyer!"

"If you continue to use derogatory terms when referring to my client, I can assure you that the coming days will be very unhappy ones," he warned, adding an echoing quality to his voice that would disturb her even more. Christine shivered. "Now this is all very interesting. But I believe an investigation may be called for. Perhaps I should come over myself and inspect the situation. How does nine o' clock sound?"

"You can't do that! It's illegal! I'll…I'll call the police!"

He gave a low chuckle. "That is a rather _excellent_ idea. In fact, let us have as many individuals involved as possible. It would be a lovely sight for all your neighbors…your home crawling with the authorities. Flashing lights and loud noises. And you know how ridiculous rumors can begin. Domestic disputes. I am sure your stuffy neighborhood association will be thrilled."

"You…you…."

"The gossip will swirl. Who _hit _whom….Who was unfaithful to whom…."

And then Mrs. Chagny said something that even he hadn't quite expected (although he was not necessarily surprised)—something that made the situation all the more delicious. "You can't know that…." she whispered.

From the side, he could see Christine's mouth fall open. _Child's play now._ "It is my job to know many things," he replied. "Do you want the rest of the neighborhood to know your little secret?"

"No! My kids don't even know! That little…Christine hasn't told anyone, has she? It was a long time ago. His bimbo secretary. It doesn't matter now. No one will care. I don't want….you can't…."

"Then you had better put your son on the phone so that he can speak to his wife," he eerily whispered.

"He's asleep now." She made one last attempt to sound tough, but her voice cracked.

"Then I will inform the authorities of a domestic disturbance at your house. And perform my own personal inspection. And ensure that the entire city knows of your personal affairs."

"No. Fine. I'll get him. You…you…."

"Go ahead, Mrs. Chagny. Call me whatever pleases you. Enjoy yourself."

"You're a slimy lawyer!"

He almost started laughing.

And then: "Hello?"

His humor instantly faded at the sound of the boy's voice. He handed the phone to Christine.

She was still in shock, and it took her a moment to speak. "R-Raoul? Your mom wouldn't let me inside. That's what I said! Now if you're too tired for me to visit, that's fine….No, I didn't think you'd do that. Do I really what--?" She paused. "Yes, I kind of have a…lawyer. I don't trust your mother. What did you expect me to do? I couldn't even see you…. I know. I know." She sighed. "Yeah, I had a feeling you weren't aware. Thanks. I'd appreciate you saying something to her. Thanks. I know you're tired. See you tomorrow. I will. Love you, too. Bye."

"Oh, Erik," she whispered as she hung up the phone. "Do you think Raoul or Phillip ever found out about their dad?"

"How would I know?"

She leaned her head back against the couch. "Do you…do you think Theresa being nasty made Henry cheat? Or is Theresa nasty _because_ he cheated?"

"Do I look like a quack shrink to you? She's vile. I do not care why. And if she continues to trouble you, we will deal with it."

"If Henry is sick, she's going to be in charge of everything now."

"As you have seen, she is not such an obstacle."

"Not for you." Christine stood. "Do you want some tea or anything to drink?"

"No. I will go now." He probably should have left during her conversation; now he was sitting on a sofa, trapped in a living room with flower portraits surrounding him. Not to mention several pictures of her wedding day. _She was…appealing in a white dress. _

"Can't I get you anything? As thanks?"

"No." He took out his composition from his suit pocket. "Here are the new lyrics. Learn them before the next meeting. You can do that."

"Oh!" She grabbed them and quickly glanced over the song. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. _Good God. _"These are perfect, Erik. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Will you play them?"

"At our next lesson."

"Please just play them once tonight? I have a piano. Please?"

"You are entirely insufferable." Shaking his head, he strode to her baby grand piano.

"Thank you!"

Of course, he had it all completely memorized. He played, and she softly hummed along with the music for several moments. And then she was quiet. He could sense her approaching from behind him and side-glanced her; her expression was blank and her eyes were wide. His muscles tensed, but he continued to play. His jaw clenched as she placed a hand on his shoulder and began to slide it down his arm. He played a little faster than the song required, attempting to reach the end before…something happened. He made it. The last note echoed into the air, and then all was silent.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't speak for several seconds. "I don't…know. I just…." Her eyes traveled upward, and she removed her hand from his being. "Can I…." She swallowed. "Can I see your face?"

He jumped up so quickly that she stumbled backward. "_No!_"

"Why? What difference does it make now?" she asked, voice shaking. "We're friends."

"Yes, _friends_. Why does it matter to you?" he snapped. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't know." Burying her face in her hands, she fell to her knees. "I don't know. I wanted to touch you. And I want to see you, the real you. I want to know you're here. I can't explain it."

"Are you listening to yourself?"

"I know it sounds strange. But, when you were playing, I kept thinking about it…what you felt like…what you look like. I just need…oh, I don't know. I don't understand it. Everything is so confusing now."

"Let's just cut through this," he said through gritted teeth, hovering over her. "I am a very ugly man, Christine. Ugly does not even….I am deformed beyond your nightmares. It is none of your concern, and it does not affect your career, understand? But there are certain things that young girls with fragile minds cannot get past. And you're not going to be able to sing properly with _that_ image in your mind. And that will affect _my_ profits!" The heat was rising within him again.

"I don't have a fragile mind," she muttered.

He nearly cackled. "Your pathetic mother-in-law frightens you. My face would likely kill you."

"You think I'm shallow…."

"Darling, everyone is shallow. Would I still have trained you if you weighed five hundred pounds and had a cleft lip? _No._ Because no one would have listened to you on stage. It would have been unprofitable." She flinched as tears filled her eyes. He softened his voice. "Why can we not get past this? Everything would be so perfect if you would cease panicking and obsessing over every little issue."

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, glancing up. "You're right. Here I get mad when people stare at Raoul because of the wheelchair. And now I'm doing the same thing. I'm sorry, all right?" She bowed her head. "I'll never mention it again. I promise. I just…got really confused. "

His anger faded, and he was left with a headache. "Get off the floor," he finally ordered, shaking his head. "It is no place for a great singer."

She didn't get up. "Do you…really only do all this for the profit, Erik?"

"Don't you?" he retorted "Wasn't this all to support you and that boy?" She didn't look at him, and he saw the flicker of shame in her eyes. "It's not now, is it? You like the stage and the audience and your new appearance. You like knowing damn well how good you are. You like the art of it…and the power."

"Yes," she said. "I already told you it's not just about the money anymore." She finally glanced up. "But you?"

"I do it for the art as well," he said with a shrug. "For the creation. To see you shine. Yes, if one only cared for the money, there are other endeavors. Investment banking. Diamond mining. Grave robbing." She cracked a smile. "Now get off that damned carpet. I do not think it has been vacuumed in some time."

"I'm not a very good cleaner."

"Well, you will not need to be. Stand up." He slowly offered her a hand, and she took it. With a deep breath, she stood up beside him. "All is perfectly fine," he said as he put some effort into pulling his hand back. "I have nearly secured you a contract. There is nothing to fret about. You only create catastrophes in your head, I believe."

The glint in her eyes disturbed him for a reason that he couldn't describe. Something was _wrong_ with her.

"I will leave now," he said. "Memorize the words to the song before our next lesson." He turned to make his escape.

"Wait! Give me a moment." She ran off to the kitchen.

Like an idiot, he stood there for several minutes. Just as he was about to yell at her, she returned holding a metal thermos.

"I put the tea in here. It's really good tea. You can take it with you now."

And so he left with a thermos and the "really good tea"—and her watching him depart from the window of the backdoor.

_He had always been the one doing the watching…._

* * *

There were only a couple of nurses that he even thought twice about; most were nothing but stoic faces who entered and exited his room each week. He liked a bald guy who would crack jokes or talk sports. And an older nurse who brought him warm baked goods. And then Amanda. She was the best of them all, the one who seemed to believe he was something besides a cripple. Sometimes she could be bossy, and that annoyed him. But at least she cared.

"So how are you doing with the exercises?" Amanda asked.

He shrugged. "All right."

"Are you doing them with Christine?"

"Yeah. Sometimes."

She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Well, keep it up. You're not progressing quite as fast as they'd like, and I think some more exercise would fix that. Who knows? In a year, you could be going everywhere."

"In the wheelchair…."

"Raoul, it's not the end of the world. There are _quadriplegics_ out there who have made some wonderful accomplishments."

_If I didn't have use of my arms, I'd pay someone a million dollars to hold the gun…._He didn't say that out loud, not wanting her to report a possibly suicidal patient. "I know," he said. "I'll keep working."

"Good." Amanda smiled. "So I should also let you know that I may not be by quite as much over the next few months. Someone will be substituting. I'm pregnant."

"Wow. Congrats," he murmured.

"Yeah. I'm pretty happy." She gathered up her charts and instruments. "My boyfriend and I have been together for the past four years, so I guess we're ready. We're getting married now, just a quick wedding with the close family."

"Congrats again. Boy or girl?"

"It's a boy. We're bringing out the blues. Well, actually I told my fiancé that there was nothing wrong with guys wearing pink. We're all modern, right? But, of course, that didn't fly with him. No son of his is going to be wearing pink!" She laughed and shrugged. "Ah. But it'll be fun--hard but fun."

He felt a tug at his heart for a reason he couldn't define. "Yeah. Congratulations."

"Thanks. See you later. And don't forget those exercises."

After Amanda left, he remained in a gloomier mood than usual until Christine visited. He had ordered his mother to leave that afternoon. "I don't care where you go, just get out while she's here. I can't believe you did that to Christine. What the heck is wrong with you?"

To his surprise, his mom actually obeyed. Her mouth was drawn into a tense line, and her eyes were distant. "I'll just…go to the mall…or whatever." She muttered something else that he couldn't understand and left. Maybe he should have wondered what was wrong with her, but he didn't care.

His beautiful wife arrived, and his body nearly ached for her. "Hi," she said with an uncertain smile.

"Hey. You look kind of tired. I am _so_ sorry about last night. You know that, right?"

"It's all right. I know it wasn't your fault. How's your dad?"

"Sleeping a lot. We're still waiting for the results." He paused. "Have you…really hired a lawyer?"

"No," she murmured. "But…let your mom think I have."

"I got it." He had more questions, but she didn't seem to want to talk about it. She was so mysterious these days…. "So how was your performance? Did you bring something to sing?" He'd requested it on the phone the previous night, trying to include himself in that part of her life he couldn't seem to reach. He still missed her piano playing the most; that was his old Christine.

"It went well! Yes, I brought my newest song. I haven't practiced it too much yet, but I wanted you to hear it. I'll just sing the first part."

"Cool. What's it called?" There was an eager desperation in his voice that he couldn't seem to hide.

"It's called 'Drift.' But you won't recognize it; I'm the first to sing it. It's so, so amazing. "

"Let's hear it."

She began, and he couldn't help but gape at her. The music was mind-numbing, and her voice made it even more hypnotizing, like a painkiller. His head bobbed up and down with the notes. He'd never heard her or seen her like this in his life. This wasn't the woman he'd married. This wasn't his Christine….

"What'd you think?" she asked with a nervous smile, hands falling to her sides. He barely heard her. He reached for her with both hands, forgetting about everything, including his paralysis. She slowly walked over to him. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"You're beautiful," he said, heart pounding. That music…it shaved away common sense until nothing remained but raw emotion. The evil melody made him unable to hide his desire for her; it destroyed his defenses. He pulled her down into his arms and passionately kissed her in the middle of the afternoon. Taken off guard, she blinked in surprise before gently kissing him back.

"Can we try?" he whispered in her ear as he touched her, the scent of her shampoo filling his nostrils.

"Yes," she said with a swallow. "You're…ready? You're sure?"

"Yes." Still kissing her, he began to reach beneath her clothing. He'd forgotten everything. He just _wanted _what he loved.

"Wait."

He pulled back, and she gently arose. "I…um…I thought being off the pill for a little while would be good for my health. You hear things…So we'll need…."

"I doubt anything's going to happen…with me…like this." Some of the blissful cloud was starting to fade.

"I don't want to take that risk now."

"Amanda is pregnant," he said.

"That's great. We'll have to get her a gift."

"Maybe a baby wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Someday," she said. And then she paused. "Not…now, though, right?"

"I don't know." He was trying to think again. He'd had a perfect vision just a moment ago, and now it was gone. There had been the old Christine and children and joy. _Where had it gone?_

"Okay…um." She placed a hand to her forehead. "I don't even want to think about that until we're far away from your mother and settled. And you're much, much better. I have a career right now, and you couldn't watch a baby. No. God, no. That would be insane."

"You're right. You're right. I'm so sorry," he rambled as clarity returned. "That music…it makes you crazy. It's like you know _exactly _what you want…even if it doesn't make sense. It was weird. Forget what I just said, all right?"

"It's only a song." Her voice was shrill and aggravated. "It can't _make_ you think anything."

"I know. It just…Ugh. Never mind." He noticed her expression. "Is something wrong?"

She rapidly shook her head and sat back down. "No, nothing. Like I've said, we need to start slowly. That's what some of the books said. This is too much too fast for both of us." She leaned in to kiss him and began to move her hand downwards.

He flinched as he understood. "We don't have to do _this_."

"Please. We have to start somewhere. Otherwise…this just never goes _anywhere_!" She stroked him intimately. He wanted to protest but finally closed his eyes and gave in to her. He could feel something, but it wasn't what it had been before the accident. And that was even worse than feeling nothing. _Torture. _He opened his eyes and saw nothing but strained desperation on her face. _Torture. _

"Stop," he begged, his voice hoarse. "Please stop."

She did, leaning back in defeat. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It was never your fault." Suppressing tears, he pressed his cheek against her shoulder. With an arm around the front of his chest, she stared out the window. A wind had picked up.

He was afraid she would leave soon. He watched the wedding ring as though it might protect him. _Christine never broke promises._ But she simply sat there—occasionally stroking his hair, humming an old ballad, and staring out the window.


	18. Chapter 18

Well, hello everyone. Then again, after all this time, I'm not even sure there's anyone left. I can't believe it's been almost two years. Life has been pretty crazy, though mostly in a good way. I needed some time away to make several adjustments. Still, I apologize for the long delay.

Finally, I was able to get back into this story a little bit. I reread it several times to make sure I wasn't being inconsistent, and I've tried to keep the flow the same. Still, after all this time, there are bound to be some imperfections. With that, I give you the next chapter—because I'd rather have an imperfect story than an incomplete story.

For those who are still reading, I hope you still have fun with it and all its insanity. We're down to the last ten or so chapters and very close to the climax.

**Hope you enjoy!**

Despite her situation, a giddiness seemed to accompany her over the next few days, a feeling comparable to being five-years-old on Christmas morning. It also made her somewhat manic. The house was cleaner than it had been a while. She'd danced around with mops, brooms, and dusters while listening to soft rock on the radio. She felt alive again.

The recording deal was nearly sealed. Erik had sent a demo and somehow secured an arrangement with people at the top of the musical food chain. She never exactly knew how he did these things with such ease. The concerts were lined up. Everything fell into place like dominoes in a row. Perfection.

Of course, this didn't guarantee success; dominoes were easily knocked over. No records could be sold, no radio stations might be willing to play the song, and there were dozens of other ways that she could fall flat on her face and be left with absolutely nothing. Oh, but Erik wouldn't allow that to happen. He wouldn't.

To her disappointment, he had been colder during their last few lessons, likely because of her silliness over the mask. She couldn't believe she'd acted like that after he'd specifically come over to help her with her shrew of a mother-in-law.

"You will have a recording at two on Wednesday," he said, keeping the same distance he had when they first began their meetings. "A taxi will take you there. Nadir will accompany you for security reasons."

"You won't be there?"

"No. There is little need. Nadir will keep me informed."

His empty tone was making her feel lonely. "I want to apologize again for that night…asking about your mask. All that."

He was quiet for a moment and then waved his hand to the side. "I told you to forget the matter."

"Will we get to do any more traveling soon?" She was desperately trying to hide the quiver in her voice.

"Yes. I was going to discuss it with you at a later time, but, if you wish, I believe I can line you up several concerts. Perhaps one in Memphis soon. Later in New York and Boston."

She clasped her hands together. "Really? That'll be so fun. You'll be _there_, right?"

"Yes, Christine. I will be there."

_How to crack the ice? _"You know I used to dance, too, right? Maybe I should add that to my routine. Like this." Wearing jeans, she proceeded to do a terrible plié.

He blinked twice. "If you do that, I will blow up the theater. I do not even know what that was."

There. He'd made a joke. A morbid one, but she still felt somewhat accomplished.

"Would you like to go to a party on Friday?" asked Erik, his tone finally less guarded.

"What kind of party?"

"A party to hobnob with the other talent in the city, of course. A charity event and auction. You have to begin attending these events, banal as they are."

"It might be fun. As long as you think I'd fit in."

"You fit in if you choose to fit in."

"Then…I guess I'll go."

He chuckled. "Your excitement is overwhelming; not that I wouldn't feel the same. I shall make arrangements for you. "

Christine softly laughed, the mere act of smiling making her feel better. She'd gone from having zero social life to not having enough hours in the day. It was better that way, though—not having any time to ruminate and become depressed.

* * *

She met Nadir Khan for the first time when he accompanied her to the recording. He was quiet and difficult to read, his handsomeness muted by a wariness. Premature lines of age marked his eyes and forehead. "Very good to meet you," was all he said as he shook her hand, his grip strong. They both then climbed into the backseat of a well-maintained taxi.

"How long have you known Erik?" she asked after she had buckled her seat belt.

"Many years."

"How did you meet?"

His shoulders tensed slightly, and he remained facing forward. "He assisted me in my career."

"Oh! Erik worked with the police?"

"Something like that." His tone told her that it was time to shut up.

It was starting to annoy her that both Anne and now this guy refused to give her any more information concerning Erik. And then trying to get information from Erik himself was like moving a boulder. She shrugged and stared out her own window for the rest of the trip. Obviously, Mr. Khan was not going to be her new best buddy.

Her experience at the recording studio began as somewhat awkward. Two slightly condescending men, one with a goatee and one with curly grey hair gathered into a pony tail, asked her questions about herself and her style of music. As Erik had been taking care of these details, she wasn't even sure how to respond half the time.

"Sometimes we have trouble selling your…softer style," commented goatee-man. "You have to be a powerhouse."

"Well…I…." She hesitated and then puffed her chest out a bit. "Maybe I am a powerhouse." Fake confidence was better than nothing.

He stared down at her through a pair of small-framed glasses. "Yeah…then. Well, let's hear you."

After she sang, though, their expressions had softened considerably. There were a couple of do-overs and adjustments, but, for the most part, they let her sing without interruption. "Did I do…okay?" she asked, again mentally chiding herself for sounding weak.

"Yeah," curly-haired guy replied. "I think we got something here, Mrs. Powerhouse. We'll contact you within the next two weeks." His brow furrowed. "Just tell your uh…agent to lay off the creep factor, okay? No one likes two am phone calls." He shook his head and muttered, "The eccentrics in this industry drive me up a frikin' wall."

"I…will do that," she replied. "Thank you so much." She grinned as she met Nadir again in the lobby. "I think it's good!"

Nadir nodded once. "I can't imagine that Erik would let you go in there with anything less than perfect."

"He's amazing, isn't he? I wish I knew more about him."

The corners of Nadir's lips turned up slightly. "Will you be going home now?"

"Yeah, I…." she paused, a heavy weight falling on her chest and sucking away her positive energy. "Actually, I'd better go visit my husband."

"Ah, yes. A shame about the accident," murmured Nadir.

She didn't even know what to say to Raoul anymore. The last time he had wanted a baby. _A baby?_ _Now?_ There was no way in….Every time she saw Raoul, she ended up hurting him. Just seeing his pallor and frailty made her stomach twist into knots and made her feel helpless. And, even if Theresa had backed off, she was still a dark cloud hanging over the house.

She let Nadir leave, telling him she'd call another cab when she was ready to go. He sort of made her uncomfortable, anyway, his dark eyes holding unsettling secrets. It would make sense that Erik would have friends like that, though.

Taking a deep breath, Christine entered the Chagny home. She was somewhat heartened to see that Raoul was at least sitting up in a recliner and watching an action movie in the living room. Phillip was on a nearby couch holding a beer can. "Hey!" she exclaimed, jogging over to her husband for a hug and kiss. "You're out of bed today."

"He made me," Raoul replied, pointing a thumb at his brother and giving her a soft peck on the cheek.

"Thank you, Phillip," she replied.

Phillip shook his head and gave her a wry smile; it was obvious he'd fought quite the battle to accomplish the task.

"Do you want to go out for dinner on Friday night?" Raoul asked as she settled on the couch. He was staring at the carpet. She could tell he didn't really want to go; it was only for her and maybe Phillip had even forcibly suggested it. And that made it worse.

But she could give them both an escape.

"I'm going to a party that night," she said. "Maybe we could go out Saturday night. Or the next weekend. Sometimes places are less crowded on weeknights, too."

"Oh. Okay. Weeknights, then." A weird mixture of relief and disappointment was evident in his voice. "What kind of party?" He turned down the volume as machine guns blared on the television.

"It's just for entertainers and stuff. Some charity event. You know; that kind of thing."

"Oh. Lots of people there?"

"I'm not sure. Probably."

"Where is it?" asked Phillip, finally looking away from the television now that he couldn't hear it.

_Was this an interrogation?_ "The event center where they had the graduation ceremonies. They have that hotel with the giant fountains and statues. You know."

"Hm." Phillip turned back to the screen, mouth set in a line.

"Well, that sounds fun," murmured Raoul.

"Maybe one day you can come with me to these things." No one replied, and she suddenly felt really guilty. _But why should I feel bad?_ _It's not like I can help anyone here._ She noticed that she was digging her fingers into the sofa. It was all so frustrating.

They sat in silence until, after kissing Raoul goodbye, she excused herself to go and call a cab. On her way out, she passed Henry in an armchair, his face ashen and his eyes closed. She even stood there and stared a couple of seconds to make sure that his chest was still rising and falling. _Sometimes the house felt like it was in a state of decay._ A giant beautiful tomb.

Christine stepped outside and took in a breath of fresh air and of life.

* * *

She wore a satin red dress with thin straps and sequins along with red velvet high heels to the party, her hair pinned up into a silver barrette. Red wasn't usually her go-to color; she never liked to stand out in a crowd, and she'd read that it also attracted the attention of men.

"Look at you," said Erik when she met him outside the center prior to the event.

Her face grew warm. "Hm?"

"And now your face matches your dress."

"Is it too much?" she asked, glancing down at herself. "Do I look like a harlot?"

"Yes, darling. Everyone will be talking about it by tomorrow. You know how modest American women are these days." She must have looked like she was about to rip the dress off right then. He quickly added, "I jest. It is perfectly tasteful."

"_Everything_ looks okay?"

"Yes…."

She sighed and tried to tug the bottom of the dress down a little more.

"It is not going to be tasteful if you rip it in two…."

She stopped trying to pull it down and frowned. "I guess I'm paranoid."

"Christine Chagny? Paranoid? I never would have guessed!"

She rolled her eyes and wished she could playfully whack him on the shoulder as she used to do with Raoul whenever he would make fun of her. But whacking Erik would definitely be a no-no. "You know how I said I stopped singing when I was younger?" she softly continued.

Erik nodded once.

"Well, when I was fourteen, I had a…silly crush on my vocal teacher in high school. He was handsome, I guess, and kind of funny. Anyway, one evening I sang for a little school concert. I wore this really cute blue dress so he'd noticed, and I really never wore dresses at that age. When I was finished, he called me over, and I was sure he was going to tell me I did a great job. Everyone else had applauded a lot. He told me I needed to shave my legs if I was going to wear a dress. My dad was old-fashioned, so I…. Uh. I never went back. I was too embarrassed." She braced herself for Erik's laughter, but it never came.

"You quit singing for _that_?" Erik sighed. "Christine, that is life. You should have told him to go shave _himself_ with a rusty blade. Do you know how many times I have been insulted or degraded?"

"But you're strong. Nothing can hurt you. I wish I were like that…."

"You will be fine. Now go mingle before the party ends."

"What about you?"

"Erik doesn't mingle."

She smirked. "I figured not." She attempted to see her reflection in the nearby glass door. "You're sure I don't look like a…you know…."

"If you do not get out to that damned party…."

She scampered away and into Ballroom B, feeling her heart jump as she gazed around the expansive room at crowds of well-dressed people with wine glasses in hand. At first, she had no idea where to go and aimlessly wandered to the open bar. A lot of people had brought significant others, arms hooked together.

_I wish Erik had come in. _He was probably still standing outside the door somewhere, and she was already missing him. The brighter lights would have made his mask too obvious, though. Not that she would have cared, but….

She pretended to sip some bitter white wine until two other girls finally came up to speak to her. They were only a few years older, but their makeup was caked on thickly and their hair was filled with so many gels and sprays that every strand was permanently fixed into place. She found out they were dancers; one had even been on Broadway for a couple of years. They were nice enough, but she wasn't sure she could ever really be part of their crowd. And, after hearing a couple of plastic surgery stories, she didn't think she wanted to be a part of it.

Once they were gone, she stood by herself for about ten minutes, creeping to the side so she could take her familiar place as the red wallflower. "Christine Chagny, right?" came from her left. She turned to see a guy with sandy blond hair down to his shoulders and an expensive black suit, probably around thirty years of age. He was attractive and, with his broad shoulders, reminded her a little bit of Phillip.

"Y-yes," she stuttered.

"I hear good things about you." He stuck out a hand, and she shook it. "Name's Jeff. I'm in _Tattered_. Don't know if you've heard of it. We're still mainly regional."

"Oh. The band. Yes! You're the guitarist. Nice to meet you." She'd seen them at one other event, and they were pretty good.

They started chatting about the industry, the best people to know in the Southeast. As usual, Erik was right; it was important to _mingle_ and she was actually beginning to feel less out of place. The guy was a little more…physical than she would have liked, resting a giant hand on her arm and leaning in. She tried to scoot back to establish distance, but he only leaned in more, the scent of his cologne filling her nostrils.

As she was beginning to devise ways of excusing herself, Christine suddenly felt someone watching her. Her stomach turned.

"You may wish to separate yourself from that man," said Erik's harsh voice in her ear.

"I'm kind of trying," she mouthed, taking several steps back. "Why?"

"Because you have an unfortunate guest, my dear. Behind you." His voice was dripping with unpleasant sarcasm. "And the last thing we need is gossip of a domestic dispute."

She whirled around, blonde hair tumbling out of her barrette and nearly whacking Jeff in the face. In the entryway of the ballroom stood Theresa and Phillip, mouths fixed into scowls. Raoul was beside them in his wheelchair, mouth set in a line. She broke free of Jeff and practically ran over to them, dodging startled people and nearly tripping over her high heels. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a hushed whisper. "Is something wrong? Is it Henry?"

Theresa glared daggers. "I wanted him to come here tonight. I wanted him to see exactly what kind of girl you are!"

"I'm at a party talking to people!" she snapped. "Exactly what kind of girl does that make me?"

"Look at you. Look at what you're wearing. And you were practically in the arms of that other man!"

"I was not! I was just—Argh! I can't believe this!" She put a hand on her forehead. "Let's just get out of here before we cause a scene."

"Yes, we wouldn't want to embarrass you," muttered Phillip.

She whirled to face him. "I really cannot believe this. You have no right to come here and spy on me. I have not done one thing wrong."

"Let's go home, Mom," said Raoul, keeping his head lowered and his eyes fixated on the floor. "She's right. She wasn't…doing anything. This was a stupid thing to do. I told you it was completely inane."

"But—"

"I want to go home!" he snapped. "Get me out of here." Several people were beginning to glance over, murmuring and shaking their heads.

"Raoul," she said, reaching out. Her heart was suddenly aching with regret. "I swear I wasn't-"

"I know. I know. You weren't. This was stupid. We'll leave you alone." He turned to his mom, face twisted into a hideous scowl. "I said I want to go."

"Fine," Theresa replied. "But now you've seen what she does all day. Now you know. Now you can quit lying to yourself." She grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and began to push him away, nose up in the air.

Phillip remained there staring at her for several seconds. "You are lying to yourself. And you're hurting him. You know that."

Her mouth fell open, but she didn't have the energy for another empty protest. Arms limp at her sides, she stood in the doorway as the three Chagnys left, Theresa and Phillip on each side of Raoul like two bodyguards.

"Would you like me to simply…put her out of her misery?" Erik was suddenly beside her, staring after them. "It could always look like an accident." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I could not stop their approach without a casualty, and I did not think you would approve. Ah well."

Her lip trembled as she stepped out of the ballroom and into the lobby area, and tears began streaming down her cheeks despite her best efforts. She walked over to a plush pine green armchair and fell into it. "I want to go away," she murmured, head spinning.

"What?" Erik was behind the chair and out of her view, his voice floating on both sides of her like a parted sea.

The words left her lips before she could think them over; nothing was ever easier to say than the truth. "I want to go far away. I want to escape and see the world. I want to run."

"There will be travel."

But that wasn't what she meant. She didn't know what she meant. Her head was clouded with anger and confusion, and the wine was starting to have an effect. And then there was Erik's voice, a sanctuary in the madness.

"Do you wish me to arrange for your transportation?" he asked. "Perhaps you should go home. We will deal with this tomorrow. Mrs. Chagny will live to regret this fiasco."

"No. Please stay," she said through gritted teeth, mouth dry and forehead warm. "I don't want to go back to that stupid house and be all by myself. It's not even my house! I don't even own it! I…" She closed her mouth and her eyes before she became hysterical.

"Then what do you want, Christine?" He actually sounded a little tired.

_What do I want? What do I want? I want to fly away sometimes. _

"I want to stay here." She stood. "I'll be right back."

* * *

In retrospect, he did not know when the entire night fell out of his hands and became a horrific disaster, ending nearly everything he had worked for. But it did. Years of steady planning and perfect coordination abandoned him the minute she returned.

"I don't want to go back home by myself," she said, eyes still glistening with tears. "I'm staying here tonight. I have a key to a room." Her voice was strange, uncertain yet determined. "I have a toothbrush in my purse. That's all I really need…."

"That is fine. I can meet you tomorrow."

"No," she said, staring him straight in the eye. "Please don't leave me alone. I feel like I'm about to lose my mind. I'm happy one moment and sad the next. I feel crazy right now." She rubbed a hand over her forehead as though she had a headache. "Please, please don't leave me, or I don't know what I'll do."

"Christine, you are unwell. And-"

"I am. And, if you leave, I won't sing for you ever again."

"_Oh, really?_ You are out of your mind, girl." What the hell else could he say to that? They were far beyond talking birds at this point. Looking back, he still should have refused or offered to take her to a psychiatric facility. It was unlikely that her ultimatum would have proved true. But, for whatever reason, he surrendered his hard-won control to her.

Like an idiot, he followed her, staying in the shadows as they climbed the grey linoleum stairs to the second floor. Sliding in the key card, she opened the door when the light flashed green. Without glancing back at him, she sat on the bed, placed her face in her hands, and began to sob. The door slammed shut behind them, echoing into the halls.

He stared at her, suddenly trapped. This was not where he had meant to end up when he first saw her months ago. He was not supposed to be in this situation. How the hell had he allowed this to happen?

"He's right," she kept saying over and over between each gasping sob. "Oh God, he's right."

"Who is right?" he dared to ask. "What are you talking about?"

"Phillip!" she cried. "I am lying to myself. I am, Erik."

"Regarding what?" He kept his distance by the door.

"Everything. That I do any of this for Raoul. That I don't enjoy all this fame. That I'm not trying to get away and meet people. And…." Her mouth closed, and she stared forward, suddenly silent. Again, that strange glint was in her eyes. Her fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

"And what?"

She merely sat there not saying a word, jaw tense as she ground her teeth together.

"You need sleep," he insisted, disliking the sudden increase in his heart rate. And he needed a drink. God, how he needed a drink.

"You know, I'm not really that tired yet," she murmured. Christine stood, still with that strange expression. Her eyes were narrowed and her lips were slightly parted as she turned to face him. "But my feet hurt."

"Then perhaps you should remove your shoes," he replied. What the hell was he even doing here? He needed to leave. _Now._

"You're right. I should." She slipped a stocking-covered foot out of each red shoe. Then she looked back up again. "You're always right, Erik."

"What are you doing?" he asked as she slowly began to walk toward him, dress gently swishing with each step. Perhaps she was testing him, seeing how close he would let her get. And he was frozen like a daft fool.

"I won't touch the mask," she whispered now standing directly in from of him, several inches shorter without the shoes. "I promise. I just….Oh, Erik!" She took a giant step…no, a leap forward and wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest. Her nose tilted upwards and nuzzled the base of his neck as he pressed himself up against the door. "God," she said.

But God had no part in this. Quite the opposite, he was sure. He felt like he was about to have a heart attack, chest tightening as he finally began to grasp just what was wrong with her. And it was wrong on more levels than he could count. Still, he stood there immobilized, allowing her hands to roam his back and waist. Her blonde hair tickled his chin. Warmth filled the spots where they were pressed together. His mind was buzzing, and his hands fell limply at her sides, unable to neither push her away nor hold her there.

He flinched when he felt a softness on his neck and then a coolness. _A kiss. Two kisses. _ _Three._ And then she was staring up at him, blinking with wide blue eyes, her hand cupping his right masked cheek. "I…." She swallowed and then pressed her cheek against his aching chest again, her left hand falling down to his shoulder.

"You _what_?" he rasped, feeling half blissfully intoxicated and half-suffocated.

"I…I want…I need…I love…. Oh, I can't!" She let out a sob as she stepped backward with one hand over her mouth. "God, it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right…."

"You are utterly mad," he whispered with a choke. He turned around, flung open the door so that it crashed into the wall, and ran faster than he ever had in his life. There was a pained _oof _as he practically shoved someone down the stairs to get past them.

"Erik!" Christine cried his name as he bolted down the stairwell. "Erik! I'm sorry! Please!"

He ignored her, still feeling the cool tingle of her lips lingering on his neck. He ran so fast that the world was nothing but blurred shadows circling around him.

After facing countless hit men, terrorists, and the most vicious, sadistic people on earth—this…this…_this _was going to be what killed him.

* * *

The phone rang three times.

With a sigh, Meg tossed her chemistry textbook aside and picked it up. Hearing two voices on the other end, she realized her mom had already answered. She started to hang up but stopped as Christine's shrill voice blared out of the receiver.

"I screwed everything up!" she exclaimed. "I hate myself. I hurt everybody. I don't know what to do."

Meg rolled her eyes. Talk about overdramatic. Still, the panic in Christine's voice sent a row of goose bumps down her bare arms.

"Calm down. Calm down," soothed Anne. "It's going to be okay. Do you want me to meet you somewhere?"

"Yes," gasped Christine. "Meet me tomorrow. I need to talk to someone so badly."

"I'll meet you anywhere, dear. It can't be all that bad, right?"

"It is that bad! Please meet me at the church where we talked that one time. Let's meet there. Please. I can't believe what I did. But Anne, he was there. And I wanted…and he…."

"Shh," hushed her mother. "Take a deep breath. Are you…in any danger?"

Christine sniffled. "No, I don't think so."

"As long as you're not in danger, we'll talk about it first thing tomorrow. You get some sleep, Christine. Take a deep breath and get some sleep."

"I don't think I can, Anne."

"Try, dear. I'll meet you early tomorrow morning."

"Okay," Christine said with an exhausted sigh. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Christine. I promise it will be okay."

There was a click, and Meg could hear Anne talking to herself in the other bedroom. "Good Lord, what's going on now? I knew I shouldn't have…."She then cursed several times.

Meg could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She knew if she asked her mom what the heck was going on, she'd get nothing but a: _Go to bed, Meg. It's fine. _

Meg closed her door with a soft click, suddenly feeling alone. Her boyfriend was on a road trip, and everyone else around her seemed half insane.

_I wish I was born to another family…._


	19. Chapter 19

Wow. Thank you so much for all your support. I can't believe so many people came back to read. You guys are awesome.

So here is a pivotal chapter, one that I've kind of had in my mind ever since I began writing this story. I hope it has all the effects I've intended it to have.

**Thank you again. Enjoy!**

Not since the death of her father had she felt so completely alone.

She hadn't slept all night, curled up fully-clothed on the hotel bed. Sometimes she cried, and sometimes she just lay there with her eyes closed, listening to the bumps and creaks of the guests on the third floor. The following morning, she took a taxi back home, nearly shuddering as she entered the quiet house. As the silence began to drive her insane, she went to a café until it was time for her meeting with Anne. Even after three packets of sugar, her nonfat latte seemed flavorless.

_Why?__ Why__ had__ she__ done__ that__ to__ Erik?_ At first she'd told herself that it was merely the combination of alcohol and loneliness. It had felt so good to grab a hold of him. He was tangible. Even comforting. He was a solid man, someone who could be grabbed and hugged and kissed and….

But a name had interrupted her thoughts. _Raoul._ It would be an unforgivable betrayal. She wasn't that kind of woman, right? And yet even after she'd stepped away from Erik, the need nearly overpowered her conscience. But he'd run, thank God, and it was no longer even a twisted option.

And now what Erik must think of her.

While at the café, she called Raoul from her cell phone, but no one answered. Her stomach clenched with guilt. Anne texted that she would meet her at 8:30, and Christine felt only slight relief.

As she walked into the church, eyes seemed to stare at her from painted windows and statues, as though the holy men of the past knew what she'd done-what she wanted to do. Anne was already there, sitting in the middle pew with her hands folded in her lap. She stood and turned when she heard Christine's footsteps. Christine ran over and hugged her, smelling a cheap perfume on her worn green blouse. After pausing in surprise, Anne slowly returned the embrace.

"Christine, what in heaven's name is wrong?" asked Anne. She looked tired, dark shadows beneath her eyes. _Great, __I__'__ve__ made__ yet__ another __person__'__s __life__ difficult._

"Anne, I tried to…." She turned away and sunk into a cushioned seat. "I messed up."

"You tried to what? Tell me, Christine. It can't be so bad."

"Anne…." She explained how Raoul and his _lovely _family had shown up that evening hurling accusations at her. Christine swallowed sickly as she started to talk about racing up to the hotel room.

"What happened?" whispered Anne, sitting down beside her. "What happened with Erik?"

"I hugged him."

"You hugged him?"

"And not like a friend. Not like we just hugged a second ago."

"You mean…."

"Yes. I kissed him…on the neck. I think if he weren't wearing a mask, I would have gone further. I wanted…. Oh, Anne! I'm so ashamed!"

"Oh…. Well…you shouldn't be ashamed of caring for him…." Anne was speaking as though her mind were in another place and staring toward the front of the room. Her voice shook slightly. "Just because he looks a little different."

"What? I'm not ashamed for…caring about him!" Christine exclaimed. "I'm ashamed for betraying Raoul like that. What was I thinking?"

"Oh, I see. Yes, Raoul. Yes. This is very difficult. Good Lord."

"I leave my husband all the time. I think I've nearly given up on him. He never gets out, but I shouldn't be doing this to him. I should stick by him no matter what. Even if that means dealing with his witch of a mother, right?" Christine was dying for someone to draw the moral line for her-to tell her what to do.

Anne sighed. "Well, yes, of course. I just…you actually are drawn to Erik in that way?"

Christine looked down at her hands, a flush creeping into her cheeks. "I don't know. I want to be around him all the time. I miss him when he's gone like some stupid sixteen-year-old. And last night, I wanted…." She shook her head to make the thoughts go away. "But Raoul, Anne! That's what matters! It doesn't matter what I think about Erik. I'm married to Raoul. I love him!"

"I suppose so." Anne rested a comforting hand on her leg. "This is all very strange to me."

"Tell me about it. It's awful." Christine felt sick as the next words left her lips. "I think I have to stop everything. The leaving all the time. The singing in far away cities."

"What? Why?" asked Anne, turning to face her. There was now slight panic in her eyes.

"Because it's not right. None of it is for Raoul anymore; it's all for me. I sing and go places for me. I go to parties for me. Every minute spent with Erik is for me, and nothing I do is going to help Raoul. I'm only making it worse."

"But you mean so much to him. To Erik, I mean."

Christine snorted. "He wastes his time on me. Erik deserves so much better. He deserves someone strong and confident and…. And I'm going to end up killing my husband!"

"You can't simply continue the music?"

"It's like having an affair in my mind, almost. An emotional affair."

"He's been through a lot," whispered Anne. "I don't know how he will take this."

Christine leaned in. "What do you mean?"

Anne hesitated as though making a difficult decision. She reached into her pursed, grabbed a wrinkled tissue, and dabbed at her eyes before continuing. "He was one of my foster children when he was younger. One of my first. He was generally well-behaved in my home. You could tell he was extraordinarily gifted, especially with music and mathematics. He could play any song on the piano after listening to it once, you know? But he had this temper….These two neighbor boys were making fun of his mask one day, and he got into a fight with them."

"Lots of little boys get into fights."

"This was different. One boy had a broken arm and a broken nose. The other…was in the hospital for a month. Thank God he lived. Erik was simply a better fighter, but he did not know when to stop." Anne pressed her lips together as though angry. "They took him away from me because they said I couldn't handle such a child. I was devastated. I was sure it would just take some time for him to learn that someone cared about him, but the authorities wouldn't listen." She choked and wiped at her eyes again. "And his life after that has been very complicated. He's moved from place to place and seen much of the world, but it's been a very unstable lifestyle." Anne turned to her. "Music is one of the few positive things in his life."

"Erik is still strong," stated Christine. "He was young, and he had some trouble, but he's so strong. Raoul needs me; Erik doesn't. I need _him_ more than he needs me."

Anne sighed. "This is really what you want?"

Christine laughed brokenly and placed her face into her hands. "What I want? Of course it's not! But what am I supposed to do? Run away with Erik to be rich and famous while Raoul wastes away? Is that what I should do? First, I kill my father and then my husband."

"Christine, you didn't kill your father."

"But should I just abandon my paralyzed husband?"

"I suppose not," murmured Anne. "Oh, I should have never have allowed this to happen in the first place!" she cried, throwing her hands into the air. "I knew it wasn't good for Erik to get involved."

"No, it's my fault," she replied as tears trickled down her cheeks. "I always end up hurting everyone."

"No." Anne took a deep breath, regaining her composure. "It's not really anyone's fault. It's just a bad situation."

"I'm such a-" Christine paused as soft footsteps interrupted her. The front door closed with a creak and a click. Then silence.

"Someone was listening," whispered Anne, the color draining from her face.

Her heart began to pound. "Erik? Do you think he was listening somehow?"

"N-no. I don't think so. He wouldn't have let us hear him. Maybe it was only a passerby. Yes, it probably wasn't anyone." Still, Anne rushed to the door, and Christine followed. They stepped out into a rain shower and glanced around. Thunder rumbled in the distance. No one could be seen, though. No other cars were in the puddle-filled parking lot

"I don't want anyone else to ever know what was said here," whispered Christine as they stepped back inside.

"Trust me," murmured Anne. "I won't tell a soul." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Do you want me to speak to Erik?"

"No. He deserves to hear it from me."

"All right." Anne swallowed. "Call me as soon as it's done. I want to make sure that everything is…okay."

"Okay…."

They both stared out into the rain.

* * *

"Please come see me tonight at the place we have our lessons," said the recording of her voice. "At six. I promise it will be brief."

_He_ hung up with an aggravated sigh. Now what?

Well, why wouldn't he go? Was he going to avoid her forever? What was he? Scared of her? _Hah._

Still, he couldn't completely ignore the feeling in his chest.

He'd never been kissed before.

_Never._

He'd had offers of escort services, both high class and low class, from various criminal consorts. Some of the men had a new woman every weekend. But, even if one of the girls had been willing, he had never desired paid _services_. It disgusted him for some reason that he'd never dwelt on. While the men and their women had staggered to bedrooms after nights of alcohol and lines of cocaine, he'd wander the city streets. Sometimes he'd plan his next venture, and sometimes he'd watch people interact with a vague fascination.

_Pathetic people with their drama and problems and miserable little lives…._

_Had he just become one of them? _

He arrived early and waited upon her. She was right on schedule, dressed more plainly than usual, like she had when they'd first met. Her eyes were a little red, and her hair was uncombed. He didn't feel much better than she looked.

"Erik. You came." He couldn't tell whether there was relief or fear in her voice. Perhaps both.

"So it appears I did."

"How are you?"

"Well."

"I want to apologize," she began. "What I did last night was…very wrong."

_Something__ hurt._ He kept his voice steady and indifferent. "Yes, well…you were a bit intoxicated. We can forget it and return to your lessons. Right now. Perhaps a few exercises to begin." _Anything__ to__ change __the__ subject._

Her mouth opened he thought to warm up, but a sob escaped instead.

He nearly growled in exasperation. "What is wrong with you? I told you to forget that night. Get it out of your mind and focus on your singing! " Some of his control began to slip away.

Her lip trembled. "Erik. Erik, there's something I need to say."

"Then say it."

She hesitated so long that he nearly yelled at her again. "I finally realized that this is all so wrong to Raoul. I've practically abandoned him for lessons and parties and concerts. I'm going to end up killing him. I don't think I can do this anymore."

"Do what anymore?"

"Become a famous singer," she nearly whispered, staring up at him with wide, devastated eyes.

"_What!_ Girl, are you out of your mind! You are just going to quit! _Now?_" Heat rose into his normally ice cold skin. Control evaporated and left behind flames.

"I don't have a choice. I'm married, Erik." She held up her hand to display her wedding ring.

"_A __choice._ Do you know how many hours I have put into you? How many minutes of frustration and dealing with your little tantrums? And you want to stop now? Just as we are finally beginning to get somewhere?" Anger swelled within him, gripping his chest and blurring his vision. It was something far beyond what he'd ever felt—poison in his veins.

"I know," she murmured. "I know. I've made a mess. I'm so, so sorry. But how is this really going to help Raoul? He's getting worse, not better. No amount of money in the world is going to fix this. He's probably never going to walk again! And I have to help him face that." She paused. "I have to face that."

"No. You're scared that you might actually have to live for yourself instead of someone else. You're too weak to make your own damned decisions. You're a pathetic little martyr," he growled through gritted teeth.

She shot him a pathetic little glare. "Have you considered that it's because I love him?"

"Oh, I have no doubt you have some affection for that boy. But, darling, girls who are desperately in love with their husbands do not do what you did last night."

"Please," she whispered, taking a step backwards. "This isn't what I want."

"Of course it is! You enjoy being miserable."

"I don't…." She sighed. "There are other people you should be spending your time on. People so much better than me. Stronger and smarter and prettier."

"Tell me you were lying to me."

"What?"

"Tell me everything you said last night was a lie. All of it."

"I don't like to lie," she whispered. "Not that night. Not right now. I won't."

"Then let me free you from this train wreck!" His voice boomed throughout the room, and her eyes widened with a slight glint of fear. He softened his voice to a near whisper. "Let me get you out of this nightmare. We will change your name if we have to. Don't throw your life away, girl!"

"Oh, Erik. Don't you understand? I would hate myself forever if I just left him like this. I'd be miserable. I wish everything were different." She buried her face into her hands. "I wish I could start my life over from the beginning. But I can't."

"Yes you can!"

"I can't…."

"So just like that, it is all over?" The anger drained, and he was left with something worse. Something indefinable. A blow to the chest and stomach.

"I guess so," she murmured. "Part of me feels like it's dying. It is, I think."

"Then run away and live, Christine. Sing. I'll take you anywhere you wish. New York. Paris. Anyplace!"

"I can't…." She walked up to him and took his hand. Her skin was nearly as cold as his. Slowly, she placed his hand against her tear-stained cheek and held it there, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. "Promise me you'll do wonderful things for both of us. I'll never forget you. I'll think of you every day." She paused and looked up at him, face scrunched in pain. And then she mouthed three distinct words.

With a soft cry, she turned and ran away, leaving him standing there and slowly losing his mind—and with a stolen trinket clasped in his bony fingers.

* * *

"It is utterly despicable," _he_ growled to Nadir two hours later, pacing three times across the ugly brown carpet. His mind was whirling. "She is giving her life away for nothing! For some sulking idiot who won't even get out of bed!"

"Yes, well, the situation was a bit of a mess to begin with," Nadir replied, keeping his distance against the peeling walls. "The girl never seemed entirely stable." He paused and then cautiously asked, "What will you do now?"

"I cannot stop. I cannot. She will be on the radio. She would have been everywhere. Millions of dollars down the drain! I do not devote months to a project and then end up with absolutely nothing. Erik does not lose!" _The __money_-he focused on the money. That was all that was really important, right? The power. The wealth.

"We aren't dealing with criminals or people that can just be…taken out. Why not come back with me to my city? Why not go back to what we're both good at?"

"Damn your city!" he snapped. "I am attending to this first. I am not just leaving like a kicked puppy. That girl will not do this to me. You do what you want."

"Erik, there are many girls out there with decent voices. If this is your new hobby, we'll find another. Have you seen that T.V. show where those kids compete to sing? People line up for miles trying to make it big."

"I do not want some other moronic girl." He backhanded a standing lamp, and it fell onto the floor. The bulb went out with a crackle, and they were left in near darkness, save for the glow of a digital clock and the faint streetlights from outside. "I want Christine!"

"I see."

_He_ did not like the expression that crossed Nadir's face at that moment. But what could he say? He was the one having a temper tantrum over some stupid girl. He nearly hated her. And he was not one to ever really hate anyone—even when he was disposing of them. He was _feeling_ more than he ever had in his adult life, and it was making him ill. Mentally ill.

"So what are you going to do?" Nadir asked.

"I have spent far too many damned hours on Christine Chagny. This is not over. I will not watch her ruin her own life." _And__ mine._

"But what can be done?" Nadir pressed. "What? Are you going to hold her hostage and force her to sing?"

_He_ wryly laughed as darkness began to cloud his vision; it had all suddenly become so clear. He clasped the cold trinket in his palm, feeling the object dig into his skin to the point of pain. It'd been so simple to slip it from her finger—as simple as his next task was going to be.

"That girl would enjoy being kidnapped so she didn't have to make her own choices. And that would be another mess. No, Nadir. _No._ Far from it. I am going to free her! Then she can do as she wants." He laughed again, and it echoed. "Then she'll be forced to do what she wants."

Nadir squinted. "What do you-?"

He left Nadir standing there and jumped back out into the night, mind wildly racing with the most sinister of thoughts.

* * *

His heart skipped a nervous beat as she entered the room, but he forced a smile out of his dry lips. Her make-up was washed off, and she was wearing a simple grey college sweatshirt and jeans. He liked her better that way, uncomplicated and natural. She was always beautiful, but he'd felt unable to recognize her over the last few months. For once, he saw the woman he'd married. Simple, sweet Christine.

"Hi Raoul," she said, bending down and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"Hi there."

"Can I sit down?"

"Of course, silly," he replied. "Look, Christine. I'm so sorry for that night. I know you weren't really doing anything wrong. My mother is a complete—"

"Shh. I'm sorry, too. Let's just forget that ever happened. All of it." Her face was strangely blank.

"Okay…."

"You can tell your mother I'm done."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm done singing and going places all the time." She looked down at the floor. "I'm not going to leave you anymore."

For a second, Raoul felt a rare spark of joy. But then…."But didn't those things make you happy?"

"Being with you makes me happy." She lay next to him on her side, snuggling her head into the extra pillow, and he scooted over before putting an arm around her torso. "We can go out to dinner whenever you want. I won't be busy all the time. We'll do anything you want, even lie here forever." She softly laughed.

"Christine," he whispered, wrapping an arm tightly around her and burying his face into her soft hair. She was warm and smelled so wonderful, like fresh roses. "My Christine."

"I'll move back in here, and your mom can rent out the house. I won't let her keep us apart. Maybe someday she'll get use to me."

"But won't you be miserable here?"

"I'll be fine. I want to be with you. I don't want to leave you all the time."

He swallowed, wanting to promise her so many things. _I__'__ll__ walk__ again.__ I__'__ll__ be __my__ old__ self.__ We__'__ll__ get __out __of__ this__ house._"Christine, I'll try for you."_Jesus, that__ sounded__ pathetic._

"I know you will." She turned her head and smiled, but he couldn't ignore the glint in her eyes. _Loss._

They watched a cheesy comedy, and he stroked her back, not really paying attention to the movie. She didn't say much, simply resting her head on his chest. Her breath tickled his neck.

"You don't have to give up singing," he said during a commercial as the guilt began to weigh on him.

She was silent for nearly a minute, and he didn't think she was ever going to respond. Then she whispered, so softly that he could just barely hear her, "I would have lost myself in it forever…."

"What?"

"Nothing." With a grunt, she stood and smoothed out her pants. "It's getting late, so I guess I'll head off and get some sleep. I'll be back the day after tomorrow with some of my things. I'm going to take a day to myself and rest…clean up…."

"Sure." He forced a smile. It was about time for his pain meds; he could feel a faint burning in his muscles.

"But then we'll have lots to do together," she continued.

"Right. Definitely." He looked into her eyes. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too." She bent down and kissed him. "Goodnight."

"Night."

She turned to go.

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

He was going to ask where her wedding ring had gone but suddenly decided against it, not wanting to get into some awkward conversation. She'd already given up everything for him. "Never mind. Have a good night."

"You, too." She left.

Raoul lay in the silence, oddly more lost and alone than ever. He dozed for awhile. When he opened his eyes, he swore he saw two little beads of light in the window, almost like yellow Christmas bulbs. When he blinked, though, they were gone. Maybe the painkillers were doing something to his mind. He closed his eyes again.

And then he sensed someone in the room with him.

"Mom?" he hoarsely asked and noticed how dry his mouth was. "Could you grab me a glass of water? And my medication. Please?"

There was no response, but the air seemed colder.

"Mom?"

* * *

Anne had felt unwell ever since her conversation with Christine; a constant paranoia seemed to follow her. She folded and unfolded her hands, glancing over her shoulder in search of…well, she didn't know. Christine had called and told her that it was done, although the poor girl had given few details.

"How did he take it?" Anne had pressed her.

"I don't know," Christine replied. "I can't talk about it now. I'll…I'll talk to you later." She'd hung up with a sob.

Anne had paced for the rest of the evening. For whatever reason, Meg stayed in her room most of the day, and Anne didn't even ask what was wrong. The last thing she needed was another angry teenage rant.

_No._The last thing she needed was Erik appearing in the middle of her living room at midnight, looming over her with wild yellow eyes.

"Oh!" she gasped as he emerged from the kitchen. "Erik." She cast a nervous glance toward Meg's door. At least the light appeared to be off.

"Anne, I cannot stand it. I nearly want to die!" He stretched his open hands out toward her as though grasping for something that didn't exist.

"Let's talk outside," she whispered, heading for the backdoor. "Please. My daughter…."

"Anne, I am completely wrong of mind, you see." To her relief, he followed her, still continuing to ramble.

"Oh, Erik…." Once they were outside, she turned toward him, her own heart breaking. But a sliver of fear crept up inside her as well. His eyes were very strange, more confused than she'd seen them in awhile. His motions were jerky and less controlled. Still, she managed to gather herself together and rest a hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I know this is terrible for you. Losing Christine like this."

He flinched away from her touch. "I had a plan for her, and then she was going to leave. So I made another plan…."

"Another plan?"

"Oh yes. But, Anne, I think she has ruined me. She has ruined everything. I feel rather wretched after tonight. Nothing makes sense now, you know? She has ruined me."

"What happened?" Anne dared to ask, shivering even though it wasn't that cold outside.

He said nothing, turning his back to her and staring up at the starless night sky.

"Erik, what happened?" she repeated.

"You have always been good to me. I thank you for that. I never thanked you before, did I? Well, there you go. Someday I will give you a million dollars, so you can leave this place."

"Please tell me what happened," she begged. "You're not making any sense."

"But for now, I think," he continued. "I think it is time for me to go for awhile. I think it is best to go away now. To get away from _her_…all of this. It is best. Before I lose what is left of my mind."

"Erik!"

"Goodbye, dear Anne. Tell your daughter I said 'hello.'"

"Erik, tell me what happened! Please don't leave!"

But he disappeared before she could blink.

Anne felt a chill run down her spine and grabbed a hold of a rusty metal drainpipe to steady herself. _What __to __do? __What__ to__ do?_

But she had no idea where to begin. Weakly, she sank to her knees and stared at the muddy ground, knowing it was somehow too late to save anyone now.

* * *

Christine hadn't even noticed it was missing until late that night, as she was putting toothpaste onto her toothbrush and staring down at her bare hand. She'd been too upset and too distracted to notice much of anything lately.

She'd shown the ring to Erik. _Erik. __She__ could__ barely__ think__ of__ him__ now__ without__ feeling__ upset._ But then what had happened? Christine searched the entire house and retraced her steps back from the mailbox. She called a restaurant where she'd had dinner by herself and the grocery store, but no one had seen it. Where else had she been?

_With __Raoul._ She called him, but no one picked up the phone. It wasn't nine yet, so he could have still been asleep. The entire Chagny house slept in some days. _Great. __So__ much __for__ a__ day __to__ myself.__ Theresa__ would__ probably __be __there._ Still, she was getting desperate to find it. At least it allowed her to focus on something besides the gnawing pain in her chest.

She drove to the Chagny home and knocked on the door. Henry let her in, appearing as tired as ever. "Where's Raoul?" she asked the frail man.

"Still sleeping, I guess," he replied, walking away. "All he ever does. All I seem to want to do these days…."He yawned and disappeared into his office.

Shaking her head, she went to her husband's room and slowly opened the door. It squeaked softly. "I'm sorry to bother you this early," she began. "But I'm freaking out because I think I've lost my wedding ring. Have you seen it?"

Christine stared at the carpet as she walked in but saw nothing shimmering. With a sigh, she sat down beside him, the bed creaking beneath her weight. "Raoul?" Christine stared down blankly at her husband for nearly a minute and then she smiled.

"Raoul? Oh. Just looking for my ring. It doesn't seem to be here. I also went shopping yesterday. I got some of those Asian pears you like so much. I also got some apple juice. And I think we should get a fancy stroller for Amanda's baby. Do you think she'll like it? If we were going to have a baby, I'd want one. We'll still do that one day, Raoul. You wanted one so much. I know we will. We'll have everything. A new house and kids and animals. Remember how I wanted a farm? Maybe we can get a little one with just a pony and some chickens. I'd like that. Raoul? Wouldn't you like that?" She smiled wider at him and placed a hand on his cheek. "Isn't a good basketball game on today? Or maybe it's too early. You know how girls can be with sports." She giggled. "Maybe you'll have a son to watch all that stuff with you. And I'll have a daughter to play with. One of each…. Raoul. Raoul! Please tell me you'd like that!"

The door opened, and Teresa poked her head into the room. At first, her eyes narrowed into a glare, and she stared in Christine's direction. "I hope you didn't wake him. He was up late." She opened the door all the way and began to walk toward him. "Did she wake…." Theresa stared down, and her mouth fell open.

Christine glared back at her mother-in-law. "You can't get mad at me now. I'm just visiting him. I'm going to be a good wife now. You can't get mad at me anymore!"

Theresa stepped backward trembling, eyes wide and mouth still in a giant "o." She ran into a dresser, causing several bottles of medication to fall off the top and roll onto the floor, and steadied herself with one hand. And then she screamed.

And Christine screamed, too.


	20. Chapter 20

Hello all. Sorry to leave you with that little cliffy. What would a Quiet story be without cliffhangers, though? :) This chapter is fairly high in drama, but the subjects of conversation are pretty intense so I think it warrants some drama.

**Thank you all for your support! Please enjoy!**

The next wet and foggy morning, Anne attempted to call Christine at least ten times but received no response. That only made her all the more concerned after the events of the previous night. Before she lost her mind, Anne jumped into her SUV and drove to the house that the couple had shared. No one was home. She then sped over to the Chagny house. Her heart jumped as the red and blue lights from ambulances and police cars reflected off her windows, blurred by the haze and rain.

Anne parked down the street and climbed out of her car, grabbing onto the edge to steady herself from the shock. There was no way she could get close to the home without drawing unwanted attention. Just down the street, a middle-aged woman in black yoga pants and a loose neon pink shirt was also watching.

"Do you know what happened?" asked Anne.

The woman briefly glanced at her. "I think one of their sons died. He was in a bad car accident awhile back, and I think he passed away last night."

Anne's stomach flip-flopped. _Oh __God __no._ "From his injuries?" She was unable to hide the quiver in her voice.

She shrugged. "I don't really know. Sorry. Are you a neighbor?"

"No. I'm a friend of the family's."

"Oh. Well, maybe once everything calms down, you can go over." The woman clicked her tongue. "It's too bad. That youngest was the best of them. Had a cute wife and everything."

"Yes," Anne whispered. "It is too bad."

It took over an hour for the police and ambulances to leave. They must have placed the body into a vehicle before Anne arrived because she never saw it being carried out of the enormous home. To her odd relief, no one was taken out in handcuffs. When the last police car rolled away, lights still flashing, Anne walked over as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. She was about to knock, but a handsome younger man walked out whom she vaguely recognized to be Christine's brother-in-law. He stared down at her through bloodshot eyes, his face ashen.

"Hello. I…I'm Christine's friend, Anne Giry. I heard something terrible may have happened. I wanted to make sure everything was all right."

"I can't talk right now," stuttered Phillip, voice choked with tears. "I'm sorry. I can't talk about it."

"Can you please just tell me where Christine is?" she begged.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "She went into shock. She's at the hospital for observation."

"The one where Raoul was taken?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you. I'm...so sorry for your loss." Phillip turned away from her without responding. Anne raced back to her car and drove to the next destination, running a couple of stop signs in the process. She used some of her connections from all of her volunteer work at the hospital to locate Christine. At first, one of the nurses was reluctant to let her in as she wasn't immediate family. Anne nearly shouted, "That girl hardly has any family! And the few she does have probably hate her right now. I'm practically all she has."

"Go on in," said another nurse with a wave of her hand. "Don't excite her too much."

"How is she?"

"Recovering well. Still not completely lucid. Poor thing."

With a deep breath, Anne entered. Christine was lying in the bed, staring off to the other side with a blank look in her eyes. An IV was hooked up to her arm, likely to keep her steadily supplied with fluids. She moved her head slightly when the door opened. "Anne," she mouthed.

"Christine." Anne knelt by her bedside and clutched her left hand. "Oh, child. I'm so sorry!"

"Raoul," she whispered. "Raoul is…." She burst into tears.

"Shh. Shh. It's okay. You don't have to say it." Anne embraced her.

"I came into his room," Christine said into Anne's shoulder. "And I don't even remember what happened. He was…. His eyes were open, but he wasn't there anymore. He wouldn't talk to me. He was…. He was…. Oh, God!"

"I know. I know. Take a deep breath, dear. Try to breathe." It wasn't the right time for more questioning; she certainly didn't want to send Christine back into shock.

Christine buried her face into Anne's sweatshirt and held on tightly. "I was just talking to him last night, Anne. Last night! He wasn't well, but he couldn't…. He wasn't ready to die yet."

Anne's stomach and heart continued to do a nauseating dance. _Please__ no.__ Please __no._ "They'll have to do an examination," she murmured. "Then we'll know what happened."

"Theresa told the police that they found me in there with him. I told them I just got there. And…Henry. Thank God for Henry! He told them he let me in. I couldn't have done it!"

"I know you didn't," said Anne. "Maybe it was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident."

"Yes," whispered Christine. "I can't believe he's dead. He can't be."

There was a soft grunt behind her, and Anne turned around to see a haggard Phillip standing there. "I came to check on things," he said. He nudged his shoulder in Christine's direction. "On her. Dad told me to."

"She's better," said Anne, even though Christine was starting to stare into space again. "I'll be right back, dear." Anne stood and walked out into the hall, motioning her head in that direction so Phillip would follow her. "Is there any indication as to what may have happened?" she asked.

Phillip kept his gaze on the floor. "No. They're going to examine the-examine him." He choked and turned away for a moment. "Shit. I'm sorry."

Anne rested a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right. You and your family should grieve for your loss." She paused. "When Christine is ready for discharge, maybe it would best for her to come home with me. Especially with…. Anyway, would that be okay?"

Phillip nodded. "Yeah. It's probably for the best. I'll call her when we know more."

"That sounds fine. Thank you." It dawned on Anne that the Chagny family was now completely free to abandon the poor girl. She wondered which assets were specifically in Raoul's name. Hopefully enough to keep Christine on her feet for a little while—unless Theresa tried to interfere. Anne had the feeling that Christine couldn't care less about money at that moment, though. She needed someone to be with her. "God bless you," she said to Phillip before heading back into the room.

Christine looked up at her with more unspoken questions than Anne cared to think about. But all she asked was, "What time is it?"

"A little after noon," Anne replied, kneeling beside the bed. "As soon as you're better, I'll take you to my house. Is that okay? I'll take care of you, and you can avoid Theresa."

Christine nodded, that blankness still swirling in her blue eyes. "Yes. Thank you." Her grip tightened on the edge of the covers until her knuckles turned white. A sob escaped her chapped lips. "Oh, Anne," she moaned. "What have I done?"

"Nothing, dear. You haven't done a single thing wrong. It was an accident."

But the same question was repeating itself in Anne's mind._ What __have __I __done?_

* * *

Christine had been in a fog of shock when her father had died; this one was ten times worse. She felt as though she were falling down an endless tunnel like Alice in Wonderland. Except it was more like tumbling into an endless nightmare. When the police had spoken to her, she'd barely been able to hear them, much less answer their questions.

"You found him like this?" one had asked. "In bed?"

"Y-yes," she stuttered. "I came in the room and saw him. I didn't do anything else."

Theresa had been hysterically sobbing and screaming the entire time. "He wouldn't just die like that!" she cried. "He wouldn't! That bitch killed him! I know she did. She wanted his money! She finally killed him! Oh, God. My son! My son!"

Henry insisted that it couldn't have been Christine's fault, but Theresa continued to wail. And Raoul continued to stare up at the ceiling with empty eyes. His face was white, and his skin was ice cold. He was beautiful in death, like a brand new porcelain doll. Both Theresa and Christine had attempted to cling to the body at various points before police and emergency workers had pried them away.

Christine vaguely remembered overhearing an exchange on a police radio.

"What do we got there?"

"Not sure yet. Maybe natural. Maybe a suicide."

"Got ya. Not a homicide?"

"No, I…." Then a pause. "Eh. Let's wait before we say anything. If the press pops up, tell them it's not conclusive yet. No reason to believe anything like that, though."

Christine had shuddered, afraid of what they might find no matter what the outcome. If it was natural, was it because she hadn't taken care of her poor husband? If it was suicide, was it because she had made Raoul so depressed over the last months? And if it was anything else? She couldn't even think of that.

Late that evening, she found herself lying on the Giry's couch with her arms folded against her chest, her last shield against the world. She'd been in a shallow slumber, but an exchange between Anne and Meg briefly awoke her.

"So he's dead?" asked Meg. "He's really dead?"

"I'm afraid so. It was likely a horrible accident." A long pause. "And why are you looking at me like that? Meg?" A door slammed. "You are the weirdest child." Then silence.

Christine closed her eyes and went back to sleep, unable to grasp any meaning in the conversation. She got up once to go to the bathroom and then took a few sips of hot tea from a mug that Anne had set beside her. The cup was decorated with various birds, including colorful parrots in flight. Her last thought before going back to sleep was: _Where __is__ Erik?_

It was late the next morning when she was awoken by a door softly closing. She still felt as though she were weighed down with a hundred sandbags and her skin was clammy, but her mind was slightly clearer. No one else was around, and the house was silent outside of the hum of appliances. She slowly pulled a fuzzy blanket off her body and stood; her legs felt like Jell-O. She unsteadily walked to the window and stared outside. There were a few wilted flower gardens, and a little vegetable plot. Half the yard was still overgrown with weeds as though Anne hadn't had time to tend to it.

She pressed her head against the window and enjoyed the coolness. There was the soft creak of a footstep behind her, and Christine whirled around. "Oh. Meg. Hi." Her voice still sounded distant in her ears.

"Hi," said Meg, staring at Christine with a questioning expression. "How are you feeling? I'm so sorry about Raoul."

"Thank you," she whispered, looking down. "I'm…okay. Tired."

"Yeah. That sounds really rough."

"Yeah." She swallowed. Meg continued to stare at her, and Christine awkwardly shifted. "Did you need something?"

"Christine." Meg took a deep breath, her small hands curling into fists. "I know you're not feeling well, but I have to talk to you. While my mom isn't around. She saw a ratty stray dog wandering around the street and wanted to take it to the shelter." Meg rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure when she'll be back, but this might be our only chance until someone or _something_ else needs her help." There was an anger in her voice that Christine had never heard before.

"Okay. What about?"

"Can we sit down?" Meg gestured to the couch. Christine nodded and followed her, sitting in a leather armchair as Meg sat on the sofa, her back straight as she leaned forward.

"Christine?" Her voice lowered to nearly a whisper.

"Yes?" She was already feeling overwhelmed by Meg's strange intensity.

"I know you've been with Erik. I followed my mom to the church, and I heard part of the conversation."

It took time for the words to register in her mind. "Oh. Well…your mom was the one who wanted to keep it a secret…."

"How long have you been meeting with him?"

"I don't know. Maybe a little less than a year. Why?"

Meg paled. "You've been seeing Erik all that time? He's been helping you?"

"Yes," replied Christine, beginning to become flustered and frustrated. "He's been helping with my singing career and things got messed up and... I don't know; it's a long story."

"Christine, how much did my mom tell you about him? His past, I mean?"

She shrugged. "Just that she had him as a foster child and that he had a hard childhood. Why? Would you please tell me what you're getting at?" She placed her forehead in her hands. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm so exhausted that I can barely think straight."

Meg groaned. "I don't know how else to say this except…Erik is bad. He's a very bad man."

She looked back up and felt her heart give a little jump. "What do you mean?"

"He's a thief and a liar. And I think he may be a murderer."

"No," Christine whispered. The world was spinning, spinning. "He's not that."

"My mom won't listen to me," Meg continued. "She should have told you from the beginning. She should have kept him away from you!" Her fists tightened. "He burned down someone's house years ago. On purpose! He's done other things. He's a criminal."

"No…."

"Yes!" exclaimed Meg. "My mom should never have done this to you. I couldn't believe it. He should be in prison!"

"Please stop."

"But, Christine. You were going to stop seeing him. And you…you wanted to have some type of affair with him?" Meg grimaced.

Christie felt her face turn red. "What? No. It wasn't a …. I don't know. I don't want to talk about this right now."

"But it's important! If you guys wanted to have an affair and…."

"We weren't having an affair! How dare you! My husband just _died_ and you're accusing me of—"

"I'm not accusing _you_ of anything!" Meg jumped up and desperately reached both hands outwards. "I'm saying that if he thought you were leaving, what if he…what if Erik killed your husband in revenge…?"

"No!"Christine gasped, placing a hand over her mouth. She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled into a protective ball. "Please stop. That's a lie. It can't be true! He wouldn't!" She started to cry again. "Please leave me alone."

Meg knelt beside her. "Christine, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't want to tell you now, but we have to find a way to protect ourselves. We have to get help in case he tries something else…."

The front door opened and closed, and Anne walked into the room. "That poor little doggy. When I tried to grab him, he almost bit me and -" She squinted down at them. "What are you two doing? Leave her alone, Meg. What did you just say to her? She looks terrified."

"I'm telling her the truth about everything," Meg practically growled. "You ruined her life! You ruin everyone's life!"

Christine pressed her hands over her ears and shut her eyes, curling up even more. She simply wanted it all to stop. She wanted to fly away. _Please__ stop. __Please__ stop._

"Meg, get out of here now!"

"I'm going to call the cops! You've been working with that psychopath all this time! You should be in prison with him!"

"I don't care what you do! Just leave her alone!"

There were a few more angry retorts between them, but Christine couldn't even understand. The front door slammed and shook the walls. She hugged her knees, squeezed her eyes closed even tighter, and willed the world away.

* * *

Anne pressed a cold cloth to Christine's forehead, her hands still trembling from the confrontation with her daughter five minutes ago. _What__ had__ Meg__ been__ thinking?__ God,__I __hope__ she__'__s __not__ doing__ something__ stupid __right __now.__ She__ wouldn__'__t__ really__ call__ the __police,__ right?__ Did__ Erik__ really __leave?_ Anne felt the need to be in five places at once but was unfortunately only human. _And__ that__ poor__ dog__ was__ still__ running __around__ out__ there__…__._

Christine's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at Anne. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

"I'm so sorry," murmured Anne. "My daughter shouldn't have been harassing you like that. Sometimes she doesn't seem to think straight. You know how teenagers can be."

Christine nodded but said nothing.

"Can I get you anything to drink or eat?"

"No," the pale girl whispered. Perhaps feeling a vibration, she sat up, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her cell phone. "Phillip left a message," she whispered, placing the phone to her ear. Her expression didn't change as she listened and then finished the call.

"Any news?"

"They finished the autopsy."

"And?" Anne's voice shook with the question.

"It's still unresolved. Raoul stopped breathing. Just like that, he stopped breathing. Maybe something to do with his injury or maybe from an overdose, but it didn't look like there were enough…painkillers in his system for that to happen. So they're still trying to resolve it. Theresa is insisting that I had something to do with it."

"Christine, you have to defend yourself. Whether it was an accident or something else, it wasn't you. You have to fight them."

"I resented him so much," she murmured. "That last night I saw him, I resented Raoul. For having to stop singing and never seeing Erik again."

"You were in a difficult position. It was understandable."

"Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I did kill him."

"Don't say that. It's what Theresa wants you to think!"

Christine shrugged and then softly asked, "Where is Erik?"

"I don't know," Anne replied, staring downward. "I think he may have left the city. Why?"

She shrugged again.

"What did Meg say to you?" Anne sat beside her and leaned in.

"It's not important."

"I think it may be very important. Please tell me." She needed to know exactly what she was dealing with.

"That she heard you and me talking at the church. That Erik did bad things. That Erik may have k-k-k…." Christine couldn't even get the words out. "No," she whispered. "It can't be…. Erik wouldn't do that. He was upset, but he would never do that to me. I know it. I know it." Her eyes pleaded for confirmation.

Anne was beginning to feel nauseous, and she wasn't even sure she believed the next words that came out of her mouth. "Erik has a checkered past, but we have absolutely no reason to believe he is in any way involved with this. As usual, Meg was jumping to radical conclusions. I'm positive it was an accident. "

"Right," said Christine, rapidly bobbing her blonde head. "This is all my fault—not his! Erik was my friend. More than that! I wish he were here right now."

Anne wasn't sure she agreed with the last statement. Especially with…._ I__ need__ to__ check__ on__ Meg._"I think he may have needed some time to himself. Maybe we all do."

"He probably won't ever come back. I hurt Erik just like I hurt Raoul. I deserve to be alone forever. I'm the murderer! I deserve it!" She buried her face into her skinny arms, and Anne could only gently stroke her back and try not to cry.

When Christine finally went back to sleep, Anne stood and dialed Meg's number, praying her daughter wasn't in any danger.

_Please, Erik, tell me you didn't. _

* * *

Although Meg had lived in a rough neighborhood for most of her life, her mother's overprotecting nature had prevented her from ever becoming truly street-smart. So while she had screamed to Anne that she was finally going to take action, Meg wasn't exactly sure what to do now that she was on her own. She wandered the streets for awhile and then finally sat down in the booth of a nearby fast food restaurant, ordering a soda so she could stay. There was only one family with three rambunctious kids there until an older guy came in about two minutes after she did.

Her first instinct was to call Aaron, but she didn't want to get him involved. What could he do anyway? What if she put him in danger?

_My __own __mother__ won__'__t__ help__ me._ And Christine was too out of her mind to be of help. Or maybe she didn't even care. It was Anne's fault for even bringing such a fragile girl into this mess.

Could she go to the cops? She didn't have solid evidence for any of his crimes, especially without any support from Anne and Christine. _Was __Erik__ still__ around?__ What __if__ he __was__ watching__ her?_

Meg shuddered. Should she forget it had ever happened? _That__'__s__ all__ her__ mother __ever__ did__…__forget__…__ignored__…__blamed__ the__ rest__ of__ the__ world__ for __Erik__'__s __problems._

_I am not my mother._

Meg ignored the first few phone calls but finally answered the fifth one with an irritated grunt.

"Where are you?" asked Anne, true concern evident in her voice. "What are you doing? You haven't called the police, right?"

"That's none of your business."

"Meg, I can't believe you. Don't you know what that girl's been through?"

"You are not blaming this one on me!" Meg spat into the receiver. "This is all your fault. You've known he was crazy since he was a kid. And you let him manipulate Christine, knowing what a wreck she is? That is just frikin' fantastic."

"Don't take that tone with me. You have no proof, Meg. None."

"Christine was going to stop seeing him," Meg replied. "As soon as she does that, her husband dies. What a nice coincidence."

"Her husband wasn't well."

"But he wasn't about to die!"

"Erik was upset. But he wasn't—"

"Wait." Meg swallowed. "How do you know that? Did you see him recently?"

Anne paused. "I don't want to talk about this right now."

"Oh my God!" Meg exclaimed. "You did. You saw him. What did he say? Did he threaten you?"

"No. Meg, please come home. We'll talk about this in private."

"I am not coming home." With a growl, Meg hung up on her mother. For a few minutes, she watched the three children run around the restaurant in a game of tag, envying them for their innocence. She then tossed the half-full cup of watered-down soda into the trash and started to leave, feeling half-defeated. What the heck was she supposed to do now? She didn't have one ally in the entire world.

"Meg Giry?" A soft, masculine voice came from a booth behind her. It was the guy who had come in after her, and she now realized that his face was slightly familiar.

Meg eyed the dark-skinned man warily. "Yes?"

"My name is Nadir Khan, and I work with the police. I think I may be able to help you."

* * *

_He_ wasn't even sure where _he_ was. What city. What day. What time. _Who __honestly__ cared?_ He only needed to be far away from her.

She had ruined everything. She had altered his entire state of thinking, everything he had been. Years of molding himself into the perfect unfeeling specimen had gone up in flames. Smokey wisps of conversation from that night floated through his mind until he forced them away.

Once in the Chagny home, he remembered dimming the bedroom lights to near darkness and staring downward. He wore a black mask, black fedora, and black leather gloves for camouflage. A nearly untraceable poison was situated securely in his coat pocket. The air had been electric, and his plan was laid out flawlessly before him.

"_Mom?__ Hello?__"_ Chagny had asked.

_To__ free__ Christine._ _To__ make __him __rich._ That is what this was for. _So __simple. __Over __in__ mere__ seconds._

Even in his unfortunate state, Chagny was handsome. He was the masculine reflection of Christine. As the boy opened his eyes, _he_ prepared to dive forward in case a series of terrified screams began. Instead, after squinting up at him, Chagny only asked, _"__Are__ you__ Death?__"_

"_Sometimes,__"_ he murmured in a hollow voice, only slightly startled by the response to his presence. He'd been mistaken for the Grim Reaper in the past.

Tilting his head, Chagny stared up at him for several more seconds, perhaps analyzing him. And then, _"__Screw__ you!__"_

"_Pardon__ me?__" _he had replied, genuinely taken off guard this time. Few had dared to speak to him in such a manner. It would have nearly been amusing under a different set of circumstances.

"_Why __didn__'__t__ you__ take__ me__ that __day?__" _he growled. _"__It__ would__ have __been__ better__ if__ you__'__d __come __the __day __of__ the__ accident__ and__ spared__ me__ all__ this__ crap!__" _

_He_ stared at the privileged young man and then took over his new role, slightly disturbed as his plan was taken off course by a young man who craved death. _"__It__ was __my __decision.__ I __am__ the__ Angel__ of__ Death,__ after all__.__ Who__ are__ you__ to__ question__ me,__ boy?__"_

"_I __guess.__"_ He made a strange sound, some combination of a sigh and a groan._ "__Why __is __life__ such__ a __nightmare?__"_

_He_ paused and then replied, _"__Perhaps__ you__ are__ already __in __hell__ and __don__'__t__ know __it.__"_

"_Christine wouldn't be here if this were hell. She's the one good thing in all of this."_

It was so utterly true. _"__I__ suppose __not,__ Mr.__ Chagny.__ I__ suppose __not.__"_

"_She __can__'__t__ be__ happy__ with__ me__ anymore.__ She__ wants __to__ sing__ and __go__ places __and__ be __free.__ And __I__ want __her__ to__ be __happy.__ From__ the__ second __I__ met__ her,__ I__'__ve__ wanted__ to__ make__ her__ happy.__ So __happy__…__.__" _ He sniffled.

"_As__ do __I.__"_ _He_ paused, an unpleasant tightness gripping his chest. There was no hatred or anger now. There was merely a quiet, a strange stillness, and time seemed to stand still. _ "__Why__ do__ you __not __stand__ up __and__ fight __for__ her,__ boy?__"_

"_Because __I __can__'__t__ stand__ up,__"_ Chagny replied with a soft laugh. _ "__I__ didn__'__t__ know__ Death__ would __have __a__ sense__ of __humor.__" _He sighed and closed his eyes. "_At __least__ you__'__re __here__ now. __Better __late__ than __never.__"_

"_She __will __cry__ over__ you. __She__ will__ mourn __for__ you.__" __He_ could already see the pain on her pretty face.

"_Maybe for a little while. But then she'll be okay. She'll be free from me and my mother and all of this. She'll be happy again. I know it."_

The boy was willing to die for her…_wanted_ to die for her.

It would be the easiest thing in the world. Not even cold-blooded murder now. Assisted suicide. And yet….

And yet, _her_. It was all about her now, wasn't it? Christine had them all twisted around her finger, mere puppets to her whims. And she did not even know it. His songbird was not aware of her power in the slightest, and perhaps that was why she was so dearly loved. _Loved._

Yes, _he_ supposed he loved her.

"_Please."_

"_Hush, boy."_

"_Please!"_

"_I__ said __to __hush!__" _He couldn't even think straight by that point. Just of her face. Just of her and those three words she had said to him.

_He_ was still inwardly shaken from that night, could still hear the hatred in the boy's voice at the end of it all. And then once the final decision was made, there really wasn't any going back, was there?

But now he was utterly ruined. Everything he had once been before meeting Christine Chagny had been annihilated.

He had belonged in the world of drugs, guns, and shadows; that had all made perfect sense. Not with beautiful wide-eyed girls. No, this world was foreign, and he needed to escape it.

And yet he already knew he was going to miss her like nothing else in his life.


	21. Chapter 21

All righty, everyone. I think we're going to make it. There should only be two more chapters and an epilogue after this. While there are no graphic descriptions , there are some disturbing themes and a few mature scenes that may earn the M rating, especially in the two chapters that follow this one. Thank you all for sticking with me this long. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her expertise.

**Enjoy!**

"I know we're young. I know…well, I know we both don't really know what we want out of life yet. But I'm pretty sure I know who I want to spend the rest of my life with. Will you marry me, Christine?"

Tears brimmed at the corner of her eyes, both in the dream and memory as well as where she lay on Anne Giry's couch. "Oh my God, yes. Oh, yes! Raoul! I can't believe it!"

"I love you so much, Christine." He stood from his kneeling position and held both her hands in his, staring down at her with those clear blue eyes. "I promise I'm going to make you so happy."

"I love you, too!" The grip on her hands tightened, nearly to the point of pain. Her smile curled into a frown of discomfort. "Raoul, you're kind of hurting me."

He was now glaring down at her, his cheekbones more prominent as his eyes became hollow.

"Raoul, please. Let go."

"If you loved me, why did you kill me, Christine?"

"I didn't!" she shrieked. "I didn't mean to! Please! You're hurting me!" His face was now a skull, empty eyes sockets and yellow, dry lips. His hands crushed hers. "Please stop!" she screamed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Her eyes opened, and she was staring at the peeling paint on Anne's wall. A bead of sweat dripped down her clammy forehead, and she shivered. She was lying awkwardly on both her hands, which explained why they ached. As she adjusted to a more comfortable position, it took a few seconds for the memories to return. Reality wasn't that much better than the nightmare. The house was silent, almost eerily so. An ambulance wailed in the distance; the Giry neighborhood had an unusually high number of emergency vehicles passing through it.

Anne was staring out the front window with her arms folded and a wrinkled brow. At the sound of footsteps, she turned. "Oh, Christine…." Her name hung in the air, two syllables of disappointment. "I thought I heard…Meg hasn't come home yet."

"Oh. Would it be better if I left?"

"No. Of course not. She's just being difficult. She'll come home soon. I know it…." Anne turned back to the window. The sky was becoming darker, matching the mood.

Christine glanced down at her phone; no one had called. When she looked back up, she saw that Anne was studying her. "Have you thought about how you're going to protect yourself?"

Christine shrugged. "I don't know if I have the energy anymore."

"You can't let them accuse you of murder! Don't you know what that would mean? Possibly prison, Christine! Or an institution. You think life is difficult now?" Anne placed her face in her hands and took a long, deep breath. "I don't mean to shout at you. I have a lot on my mind."

Christine sat back down on the sofa without a word. The threats barely made her flinch. It was hopeless, and she didn't even care. Her father and husband were dead. Raoul's family hated her; she was making Anne's life miserable. And….

"Anne, tell me more about Erik."

"I've told you most of what I know."

"But not everything?" she softly pressed.

"What does it matter now?"

"You're right," said Christine with a wry laugh. "What does it? Who cares? In the end, I'm responsible for all this. I guess I just want to know more about him. Now that he's gone, he almost seems like a dream."

"Erik is surreal. And I don't _want_ to know everything," Anne whispered. "Sometimes ignorance is simply best."

"Has he ever hurt someone?"

She dodged the question. "I never should have gotten you involved with him."

"Why?"

"Because…he's very intense. And he has been involved with some strange activities. That's most of what I know. Things in other countries. I never ask the details." Anne closed her eyes. "Anything he got himself involved with, it was my fault for not giving him a good life."

"Do you think he's bad? Like Meg said?" Her voice trembled.

Maybe this was the one remaining thing she did care about. The last thread. And not because she wanted to redirect blame. Oh, no. This entire situation was her fault no matter what. Maybe she simply needed to know whether all of it had been a lie…whether Erik had cared at all…whether the few wonderful memories that remained had any meaning.

"No," Anne replied after a moment's hesitation. "No, I don't think he's evil. He's also saved me in some ways. He's…." Tears rolled down her cheeks. The tissue box was empty so she grabbed a rough piece of paper towel and dabbed at them. "You know, I don't really understand him at all. He's not like you or me or anyone else. You and I try to do what's right, Christine. We try until the world's sucked us dry. But Erik doesn't try. He just goes through life on his whims. And sometimes what he does is right and sometimes it's wrong. And I don't understand it at all; I could never be like that. "

What would it be like to simply float through life? What would it be like not to care? Christine couldn't even begin to imagine. All she knew was that she was becoming more and more alone. And sometimes the people around her seemed to be even more lost than she was.

* * *

It would not be difficult to go forward. He could move to another country, immerse himself in a new project and make himself a fine living. His unique sets of skills would make it simple. The emptiness that had settled in the middle of his chest would have no choice but to eventually evaporate.

_He_ made plans to move onto the next state but checked his messages first. In the voice mail box that was specifically for Nadir, there were seven messages. _Wonderful. _

"Erik, you had better get in touch with me," said the first message. "What the hell have you done? You've lost your mind!"

And the next one: "Erik, contact me immediately. What have you done?"

Nadir's words angered and confused him. _What had he done?_ Simply left. What business of it was that idiot's? _Save your own damned city._ _Humanity can rot._ Still, there was a certain tone in his old friend's voice that bothered him. Perhaps it would be best to resolve the matter.

"This is the last time you will hear from me, my friend," he said from an untraceable prepaid phone when Nadir picked up. He was already regretting the call. "Leave me in peace."

"Murdering crippled rich boys is a bit of a new calling, Erik," Nadir spat back.

His hand tightened around the phone; he wished it was around Mr. Khan's neck. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"What do you mean what am I talking about? Erik, you killed the Chagny boy!"

He was silent as a rock settled into the pit of his concave stomach. "It crossed my mind that night, I will admit. A moment of brief madness as I watched my investment slip away. That is all. I am through with the matter and the wretched girl. I am leaving, and I will not involve myself in such a matter ever again. The cocaine market is less complicated than that was."

"So he simply happened to die that night? You had nothing to do with it. That is the greatest coincidence I have ever heard in all my years of solving crimes!"

"Nadir, I can't believe you can even solve how to put on your shoes in the morning." Mr. Khan's previous words slowly sunk in. "What do you mean he died that night? Are you certain of this?"

"Don't act so damned surprised. I saw you before you left that night. You were insane! I know you did this!"

"I did not kill that boy."

"It fit you perfectly. Few traces. From my sources, they can barely detect that it was more than an overdose. They suspect someone suffocated him."

"If it had been me, it would have completely passed as a suicide," he growled. "My work has never been so sloppy."

"Well, you've made a lot of bad decisions lately. Your interest in the girl made you careless."

"I have no interest in that girl outside of profit!"

"Who do you think you're fooling?" asked Nadir, his voice softening. "Even I could see it."

"Your words are dangerous. I am not so far away that I could not return quickly and pay you: One. Last. Visit."

"The younger Giry girl knows," Nadir continued, ignoring the threat. "Meg. Somehow she suspects you."

He scoffed. "That silly child knows nothing."

"She wants to go to the local police and tell them about you. I have her with me right now. I'm trying to delay her while I figure this out."

"Let her go to the police. She has nothing, and I will be leaving the country soon." He had no worries of the girl or the authorities. The records on him were hazy, and some were completely incorrect. The confusion was what made him _good _at what he did. No witnesses. No video recordings. No fingerprints.

"You promised to save my city!" Nadir could no longer hide the frustration in his voice and reveal his true intentions. Of course he didn't care whether a rich boy was dead. "I devoted months to helping you! Now you kill some poor kid, leave a fragile mess of a girl behind, and disappear without a word! What am I supposed to do?"

"Nadir, do whatever the hell you want! I owe you absolutely nothing. Have a pleasant evening." He was about to hang up.

"I think I'd better leave," said a frightened female voice in the background. "I just want to go home now. I don't care anymore about the police."

"Give me a moment!" Nadir shushed her. "Erik. One more thing, and then you can do what you want." He paused, obviously for some overdramatic effect. "There is an indication they may blame Christine for the death."

"_What?_"

"Raoul's mother is doing everything in her power to make it look like Christine was responsible. I wouldn't be surprised if they introduced false evidence. They're a powerful family, and Henry Chagny is too unwell to do much to stop her. You want the girl to go to jail for your mistakes?"

"I told you, I did not kill that boy. And perhaps I do not care what happens to her." The words were bland and untrue in his mouth.

"Will you take me home?" There was Meg's voice again.

"In a moment! We are going to resolve this first."

"Perhaps you had best release Anne's daughter," _he_ stated, reevaluating the situation. "You know enough to make your case, if you want to turn me in for a crime of which I'm innocent. You don't need her."

"I am simply attempting to resolve this situation, Erik. _The situation you created!_"

Raoul Chagny was dead. Nadir was now enfolding himself into a disturbing situation with Meg Giry. And Christine…._Damn. _This was why he'd stayed away from people.

He stared out into the balmy night, the lights from a nearby gas station distorted by the fog gathering on the glass.

"Erik? Are you still there?"

"I will return," he replied. "But I fear that is not cause for you to celebrate, old friend."

"Where do you want to meet?"

"As though I would tell you now, _Captain_. I will arrange everything. Do not contact me again. I will contact you. And if you try anything, I will kill you." He hung up.

He had few doubts that Chagny had found some way to do the deed himself. The boy had been miserable. As to why it didn't appear to be a suicide, well, that was a curiosity. Perhaps the autopsy had not been properly completed.

Whatever the case, it was time to end this.

And to see her one last time.

* * *

After returning, _he_ gave very short notice for the meeting and then watched the surrounding area carefully. It was a dilapidated and abandoned apartment complex that allowed for easy maneuvering from one room to the next. Holes filled the walls, and the occasional abandoned couch or mattress was scattered throughout the halls. Rats had nibbled away at the wooden wall corners and window ledges.

Nadir wasn't the kind to act rashly, especially if he thought he still had bargaining power. Still, the man had an odd set of morals, and caution had to be taken.

_He_ entered through a broken window on the fourth floor; the boards nailed over it easily fell away, the nails rusted. Nadir was facing the opposite direction, toward the door, a small handgun grasped in his right hand. _He_ rolled his eyes and spoke. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you, Nadir."

Mr. Khan whirled around with a jump. To his credit, he kept the gun at his side, a last defense. "Do you think the murder of a police captain would be in your best interest?"

"In other countries, it is a common occurrence."

Nadir shook his head. The bags under his eyes indicated he hadn't gotten much sleep. He didn't look like a man who expected to win; his actions were created from pure desperation. "Erik, I've understood most of what you've done in your life. But there is a far difference between the murder of a hit man and the murder of Raoul Chagny. And then leaving the girl to take the blame. And what about our bargain?!"

"I did not kill Chagny. I wished to. I came close. I did not. That is the last time I will say it."

"So it was just a coincidence?"

He hesitated. "I will not go into details. The boy was unhappy. It would not surprise me if he departed on his own terms."

"They're saying someone at least assisted him."

"Then I do not know. I do not care." He glanced around. "Where is the Giry girl? I saw you bring her in."

"In the adjacent room. I told her to wait. And there is only one exit, right beside you."

"And what are your intentions with her?"

"She is a possible witness. Meg knows of your relationship with Christine and that she was going to stop contact with you. She knows of your existence and some of your earlier activities. I could have protected you. Or…."

"Or incriminated me." He chuckled. "So I have not just walked in to a hostage situation?"

"Oh for God's sake, Erik, I wasn't going to hurt her. Don't make me look like the bad guy in all of this! I thought she might be of use if Christine got the blame. And I needed to get you back here so you could face what you've done."

"Indeed."

He opened the door of the next room, and the hinge released a high-pitched squeal. His eyes fell on the familiar young girl sitting against the wall. There was a brief silence as they stared at each other. Meg Giry then began to scream, eyes wide with terror as she backed up against the wall until her shoulder blades dug into the cracked plaster. "Get away from me! Get away from me! Get away from me!"

"Stop your tantrum, Ms. Giry!" His voice rumbled over hers. "Or I will have to make you unconscious. Do you understand? I intend to get you out of this unharmed if you shut your mouth."

She glared at him with wide-eyed hatred, but her mouth finally closed. Finding a spot in the farthest corner from the door, she sat down and curled into a ball, never taking her gaze off of him. Shaking his head, he closed the door with a soft click and turned back to his old friend.

"I have every intention of ending your life simply to make you go away. Was this really necessary, Nadir? Is such behavior even fitting of a police captain?"

"She is a witness. Now what about our deal?"

"Nadir, how high up is your moral high ground?"

"I could arrest _you_. I'd have the right." Nadir's voice faltered. He was in far over his head, and he knew it.

"The odds of that happening?"

"Erik, what happened to the old days? We were a team. With my position and your unique…skills, we could have everything. And yet you've confused yourself in this ridiculous domestic affair. If you truly did not kill that boy, then we should disappear."

"One of us is going to disappear because one of us is going to die," he replied. He vanished into the shadows. In an instant, he was behind Nadir with both of his hands wrapped around the captain's neck. Nadir had no chance to aim or shoot. The gun fell out of his hand, clattering onto the floor.

"Erik, pl-please," he choked out, grappling at the bony fingers. "Please s-stop."

A flash of _her_ face in his mind made him loosen his grip slightly. "How far did you think threatening me was going to get you?"

"If you did not do it, why did you run?"

"That's not your concern." Nadir had become far more trouble than he was worth. Still, _he _hesitated.

"Erik, please." He took a deep breath of air. "Chagny died right after I see you raving like a madman. You disappeared. What the hell was I supposed to think?"

"You are not supposed to think anything." He hurled him to the ground. Nadir groaned as his shoulder slammed against the dirty floor. "Get out of here, or I swear I will kill you. Do not ever come near me again."

Rubbing his arm and breathing heavily, he slowly stood. "Erik, you—"

"_Get out_."

Perhaps with the realization he was just barely getting away with his life, Nadir finally walked toward the door. He looked back only once, shaking his head and continuing to grasp his shoulder. The door clicked shut behind him. Footsteps followed.

_He _nearly departed as well, but a soft sob served as a reminder of the other guest in this debacle. He opened the nearby door again, bracing himself for another round of shrill female screams. Meg stood in the middle of the room, quickly backing into her corner as soon as she saw him. She was still more or less a child. "Would you like to leave now, Ms. Giry?" he asked, motioning toward the door.

She merely stared at him.

"A taxi, perhaps?"

Still, she gaped.

And then came the next deluge. "I hate you! I hate you! Why won't you just go away? I hate you…." She began to sob hysterically, nearly hiccupping with each breath. She curled her arms around herself, shaking her head back and forth as though to will away a bad dream. "I hate you! I hate you!" Finally, she merely sat there crying and mouthing the words. "I hate you. I hate you."

"Are you done?" he finally asked, beginning to get a throbbing migraine. If she had not been Anne's daughter…. "Or would you prefer I sedate you and leave you at the emergency room entrance? I am sure Anne would appreciate paying that fee."

"You've ruined my life."

"Have I?" She was so pathetic that he couldn't even feel much anger. Frankly, he didn't have the time or patience to delve into the Giry issues.

"You've killed people!"

"Guilty." He brushed her aside with a wave of his hand. "Go down three flights of stairs, and exit on the right. A taxi will pick you up in ten minutes." He turned and started to walk away.

He only paused when she then screamed, "You chased my dad away!"

He'd more or less forgotten the entire thing. _But yes…. _"I did."

"_Why?_ I was barely four! I hate you!"

"Because Anne would not leave on her own."

"What? What does that even mean, you freak?" Even after all these years, he felt himself flinch at the insult. He turned to threaten her, but she continued her tantrum, still backed up against the wall like a cornered rabbit. "_Why? _You wanted my mom all to yourself! That's sick! I hate you! Why didn't you just get rid of me, too? Why didn't you just kill me? I hate you! I hate you!"

"Go home, Meg. Have this delightful conversation with your mother."

"She won't tell me anything! She only cares about _you_! _Why? Tell me why!_"

"Your father left bruises on your mother. And was possibly developing an unhealthy interest in you."

"You're a liar!" she screeched.

His ears rang. "Yes, I've been accused of that multiple times tonight. Believe what you want."

"_Erik!" _It was the first time she'd used his name all night. "Are you serious?" she asked, a tremor in her voice. "Are you really serious? I bet you're just a liar."

"I am." He answered both the question and the statement.

"I hate you." This one was defeated.

He needed to get to Christine and was tired of these past ghosts. "If you attempt to follow or annoy me, I _will_ sedate you."

"I hate…" She tapered off. "I'll never go back home."

"Then just go." He left her there and opened the door to the exit. Reaching the bottom, he was relieved by the night air that slipped through the holes in his mask. The stuffiness and screaming were beginning to distort reality, and his mind could only take so much these days.

Rapid footsteps clattered behind the first floor door. It then opened with a soft squeak, and Meg poked her head out. "Erik! Will you get out of my life?" she desperately hollered. "Will you leave me alone?"

"I would like nothing better."

"Then you'll never hear from me again," she replied, before dodging out the door and dashing away in the opposite direction. She glanced behind her once, probably to make sure he wasn't following. _As though I'd subject myself to that again…._She finally disappeared around a corner, dark hair flying out behind her.

True to her word, he never saw her again.

* * *

Neither she nor Anne slept the following night. Anne was often at the window, staring into the darkness with her hands clenched at her side. Every so often, she'd pick up the phone, stare down at it, and then put it back into the receiver. "I don't know whether to call the police yet," she said. "It's been less than twenty-four hours. I suppose she'd be a runaway. But I don't want to get the authorities involved with everything that's happened…."

"I shouldn't stay here," murmured Christine.

"Where else would you go?"

She shrugged. "To my…." She tapered off. "Hah. I guess I don't even own a home. There's no way I'm going to battle Theresa over that house. I'm homeless."

"You have a home here. Meg will be fine." Her tone wasn't comforting.

The loud knock in the morning hours startled them both. Anne nearly spilled her coffee as she jumped up from the kitchen table. Her face paled as she looked through the peephole. "It's the police," she frantically whispered before opening the door. "Yes?"

It was a younger officer, blond, clean shaven and somber. "Good morning, Ms. Giry. Is Christine Chagny here?"

"Yes," Anne replied, slightly blocking the entrance with her hip. "But, as you can imagine, she's completely exhausted."

"I'd like to ask her a couple of questions. It won't take too long."

"Has my daughter spoken to you?"

"Your daughter? I have no information about that." He cleared his throat. "Ma'am, I'm just here to speak to Christine Chagny."

"Please be gentle with her," murmured Anne, finally stepping aside. "She's not well. Would you like anything to drink?"

"No, ma'am," he replied. "I'll only be a couple of minutes."

Christine sat silently at the kitchen table, barely looking up as the policeman entered. The world still didn't seem entirely real to her. His greetings and questions seemed distant and muddled. How had she gotten here? How had she gone from being the mild-mannered wife of the kindest man on earth to sitting at a kitchen table being questioned for his murder?

The officer began with standard questions about that day…what she'd been doing before coming to see Raoul…their last words to each other that night. And then the conversation took the turn she feared.

"I want to clarify a couple of things. Why did you return that night?"

"I didn't return that night," she replied. "I returned the next morning because I lost my wedding ring." She still hadn't found it, one of the last pieces of her husband.

"You didn't go back there that night a second time?"

"No. Who said I did? Theresa?" She groaned.

"We're getting a lot of conflicting information. I'm here to clear everything up. So you went there once that night, left, and then didn't come back until the following morning. Do I have this correct?"

"Yes!"

"Did he ever indicate to you that he was unhappy?"

"Well, yes. After what happened to him, who wouldn't be?"

"Yes, but did he ever indicate that he was severely depressed? That maybe he didn't want to live?"

"No. Raoul didn't want to…to die." She couldn't bear to think otherwise right now. "Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he just took too much medication!"

He stared at her intently, and she wondered if he didn't believe her. "Mrs. Chagny, that's…unlikely. Now are you certain you don't have additional information for us. Something he may have said?"

"I think she needs a lawyer," Anne interrupted from the kitchen entrance. "Don't you?"

He shot her a subtle half-glare. "I'm just gathering information for the report."

"Tell him you want a lawyer, Christine."

"I didn't do anything! I don't need a lawyer!" Christine exclaimed. "I didn't do anything wrong!" She buried her face in her arms.

"All right." He sighed. "Well, I think this conversation is over for now." She heard the screech of the chair against linoleum as the officer stood. "It would be best if you stayed in town. We're still investigating this case."

Christine nodded into her arms. "I won't go anywhere. I don't even have anywhere else to go." The door opened and closed, leaving behind a warm, wet gust of air. Without looking at Anne, she raised her head. She yanked out her cell phone and called Phillip, ready to leave a long, angry message in his voice box. To her surprise, he actually answered with a gruff "hello."

"What are you telling them?" she asked, unable to hide the quiver of anger in her voice. "What are you saying to the police about me?"

"Nothing," Phillip coolly replied. "We're just telling them what we know."

"You know I didn't go back there that night! You know I didn't!"

"Me and Mom thought we might have seen you. That's what I told the cops."

"You did not see me!"

"Look. I'm telling the police what I remember. The only person I saw outside of my family that night was you." Philiip paused. "I'm not saying he didn't ask you to…."

"You're a liar!" she nearly screeched. "I never did anything like that! I loved him!"

"The police will figure things out. Everything will be okay." He hesitated. "We're having the funeral next Monday. Are you coming?"

"I'll be there," she replied with a soft sob. "Of course I will."

"Good. He would have wanted you to be." Phillip choked, and she could hear the pain in his voice. But how could he do this to her? Did he really think she had killed his brother?

"Phillip, you know I had nothing to do with this. You know that. Why are you letting your mother do this to me?"

There was a long silence, and Christine wondered if he'd hung up.

"You broke his heart." _Click._ She was left with a cold dial tone.

Tossing her phone to the side, she placed her face back into her arms and wept. Anne crouched down and put an arm around her shoulders. "Christine, don't listen to them. Please don't. You need to find yourself a lawyer and fight them all the way. You know what happened and what didn't."

"What if it wasn't an accident?"

"You didn't kill him," said Anne. "And Erik…we don't have any evidence of that. We can't assume-"

"No. I mean, what if he…what if he really didn't want to live anymore?"

"Maybe he was in a lot of pain. Sometimes when people are in so much physical pain, they-"

"No," Christine again interrupted. "It would have been because of me. I know that. He knew that I…. Anne, he _knew_."

"But it was still his choice," Anne softly replied. "It was his decision to do something so drastic. Not yours."

"But I should have saved him."

"Oh, Christine," Anne murmured, placing a hand against her heart. "You sound far too much like me." Her sad gaze fell toward the window again. "And I'm afraid that's not a compliment."


	22. Chapter 22

Hello, all. Well, I lied a little bit. This chapter was becoming a bit monstrous, and it made for a better read to break it up. So there will be two more chapters and an epilogue after this, for a nice total of twenty-five chapters. Thanks again to _MadLizzy_ for her magic touch.

**Enjoy! **

The funeral was open casket, bouquets and individual flowers strewn across the front. A giant photograph of Raoul, taken about six months before the accident, stood prominently in the middle of the room. He was in front of a tree trunk in jeans and a t-shirt, giving the camera a thumbs-up. A navy blue hiking backpack was strewn over one shoulder. He'd been in the Colorado mountains with some friends. She'd been invited but declined, never being much of an outdoor person. Now she regretted not going, if only to spend a little extra time with him.

Hundreds of people attended-coworkers, former classmates, family friends, dozens of relatives, the elite. It reminded her of their wedding in some ways.

"_I'm not really into the elaborate crazy stuff either_," Raoul had assured her. _"It's more for my family's sake. If you're uncomfortable, though, we can elope or something like that."_

"_No. We'll have the big wedding,"_ she'd replied. _"It means a lot to your family."_ Bridezilla she was not, but she could cope. The Chagny family had taken on all of the expenses, too, which had been better for her poor father.

Christine could feel eyes on her as she entered, no longer admiration for the blushing bride but accusing stares. God knew what Theresa had told them. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as she made her way to the front. She sat on the opposite side of the aisle from the Chagny family, unable to look any of them in the eye.

She clenched her hands in her lap as the preacher spoke, still having a difficult time believing that all of this was real. Anne had offered to come as support, but Christine had wanted to be alone that day. Besides, Anne was sad enough without having to attend a funeral.

Meg had called once, stating that she wanted space. Anne had begged her to come back, but Meg refused, only assuring she was safe and not to worry about her. When Anne asked if she'd contacted the police, Meg replied in the negative. She just wanted to be alone…needed time to think and didn't care about the Chagny issues anymore. Christine had offered to leave several times, but Anne didn't want to be alone. So they remained together in their misery, always keeping an eye on the window in case another policeman showed up.

Christine's gaze settled on Raoul's picture at the front of the church as she remembered him, regretting things she'd done and said. He'd wanted a child, and she'd refused him that. Now there was nothing left. Not even the ring.

The preacher spoke of the usual, stating a dear son, beloved husband, and loyal friend would be missed by all. _Too young to die, but he's with God now. _Former classmates told amusing stories of high school antics. Someone read a poem about life and death. Phillip and Theresa stared straight forward, and she could see tears stream down their cheeks; however much they hated her, it was clear that they were in real pain. Henry almost seemed lost in another time and place, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and into space. She vaguely wondered if he was in his last years.

And then, with an _amen, _it was over. She remained in her seat as everyone else filtered out of the pews, briefly pausing by the coffin to say their final goodbyes. When it looked like everyone was gone except for the mortician, his crew, and a few church volunteers chatting over coffee in a distant corner, Christine stood on shaky legs. "Can I have one last moment with him?" she asked the mortician. "Please?" He nodded, probably used to this type of request, and everyone stepped out.

She approached her husband with slow, cautious steps, sorrow tugging at her heart. "I am so sorry," she whispered, resting a trembling hand on his cold cheek. She bent down and kissed his forehead. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do more. I'm sorry I made you so sad. I never meant for any of this to-" Christine sensed someone behind her and whirled around.

Theresa was glaring at her. Even at the funeral of her son, she was dressed to the nines in a tight black pantsuit, and her hair was perfectly combed into a bun. "I bet you think you won now." Her voice was low and hoarse so that no one else could hear her. "You killed him and now you get his money? You'll rot in prison before you see a dime."

Her hands curled into balls. "I don't want his money. I don't want anything from you! Except to be left alone!"

"I know you did it. I know you wanted him gone, you little bitch. That's all you dreamed about. You wanted to take his money and run away with your lover. Over my dead body."

"I didn't! Shut up!" She pressed her hands against her head, feeling like she was going to lose her mind. "I just want to be left alone. Can't you see that? You'll never have to see me again."

"Mom!" Phillip shouted, walking into the room in several quick strides. "That's enough. Let's go." He grabbed her by the shoulder and began to guide her out.

With a last glare, Theresa started to follow his lead but turned around one more time. "You'll see me again. Hopefully, at your trial."

"Mom!" Phillip angrily whispered something in her ear and forced her from the room. Her head drooped slightly, and she finally walked out, almost appearing wounded. He paused before he exited as well, turning back to face a broken Christine. His upper lip trembled. "He loved you a lot."

"I know," she murmured, staring down at his now peaceful face. "I loved him, too."

"He only wanted you to be happy. Why didn't you make him get away from all this? Get him away from Mom and to some fancy health facility? I would have helped. Hell, I would have found a way to pay for the whole thing. Me and dad. But it was just like you guys were both waiting for a miracle. Mom was right about that. You and Raoul were like two naïve little children waiting for a miracle."

"I was trying," she whispered. "I was singing for him."

"But then you started enjoying that life a little too much. Better to have lights and fame than be stuck in physical therapy, am I right?"

"Don't say those things. I cared about him."

"But he knew you weren't happy." She couldn't say anything to that. "Was there another man?"

Her gaze fell to the floor. "I wasn't going to leave Raoul. I told him I wasn't going to leave the night before…."

"But there was someone else, wasn't there? The guy we saw you talking to at the party?"

"No."

"But someone else?"

She said nothing.

"Phillip!" Theresa shouted from outside. "What are you doing? I thought we were leaving. You're not still talking to _her_, are you?"

Phillip cringed. "What is it with you goddamned women?" He turned away and left her there.

"Why are you letting her do this to me?!" she practically screamed after him, her voice echoing throughout the church. He didn't turn around. With one hand on her heart, she staggered away from the body of her deceased husband. She made her way out the door and blindly searched for Anne's car. A light drizzle fell. A few circles of mourners remained outside, huddling under umbrellas, but most had moved on to the cemetery. She grabbed an iron pole to steady herself, the metal wet and clammy on her skin. "Help me," she whispered to no one.

But_ someone_ answered.

"Mrs. Chagny, I think it is time that you disappeared for a short while," said a voice she would have known anywhere. "Before they make you disappear forever."

* * *

Just seeing her again made his heart pound. Even in her disarray and depression, even in a shapeless black dress than hung below her knees, she was beautiful. How long had he known and denied this?

"Erik." His name on her lips was reason enough to return. He was afraid she was going to faint, but she managed to hold on. Her eyes were so lost.

He was still able to hide his feelings quite well. "Come. It is time for us to talk. I trust you will accompany me? I will take you to the burial first, if you prefer." She stared at him for a moment and then nodded. He guided her to his vehicle, subtly parked to the side of the street, and opened the door for her. When she was secure, he joined her inside.

As soon as they were on their way, raindrops hitting the windshield as the car drove forward, he began to speak. Silence was an enemy right now. "Theresa Chagny is unlikely to stop her game. Now I can make you vanish, but it would be better if we could clear your name. For your career and your mental health."

She sighed. "Or I could just go to jail."

She was still as aggravating as ever. "Did you kill your husband, Christine? And not in some ridiculous metaphorical sense. Did you physically murder him?"

"No." She looked up at him for several seconds before quickly glancing away. In a soft voice, she asked, "Did…you?"

For a moment, he was angry. But then-it was really a fair question, wasn't it? "No. I despised him at times. But I did not take his life."

"Why did you hate him?"

"Your career, of course. You were throwing everything away."

"I don't know if I can resume my career after all this, Erik." There was anger in her voice.

"Do not worry about that now. Simply worry about getting yourself out of this mess. I am going to hide you long enough to unravel all of it."

Her shoulders slouched as she folded into herself. He took her to the cemetery and waited in the car as she attended the graveside service and paid her final respects, always on the lookout for police or anyone else who might do her harm. Her cheeks were red and moist when she returned, her hair windblown and filled with water droplets. Christine turned and looked out the window without a word for the rest of the drive, and he remained silent as well.

He was careful as he drove, always keeping an eye on the mirrors to ensure they weren't being followed, turning down twisting and congested roads. While he would have been willing to take down a few law enforcement officials in her name, it'd be preferable to keep the situation as calm as possible. Their final destination was a hotel suite on the edge of the city, a fancy one with room service and little mints on the pillows. Charming, one might call it. He could do without the frills, but it was mainly for her comfort. He made sure no one saw Christine enter before discreetly taking her up to the sixth floor; the clouds and wind made it easier to keep them both wrapped in shadows. Once they were in the room, he found that having her there was oddly calming. "Rest for awhile. If you want, turn on the god awful television."

She sat on the puffed-up bed but made no effort to turn on the TV. "Does Anne know where I am?"

"She knows you are with me. I left her a note."

"Thanks. I don't want to scare her. She's also looking for Meg."

"I believe Meg is fine. But I do not know if she will be immediately returning to her mother."

"Why not? Because of me?" She looked like she was going to cry again. Her mental state was becoming concerning.

"No! Let us not even bother ourselves with their issues. They go far beyond all of this."

"Oh." She stared down at the floral bedspread, tracing a finger along the stem of a sunflower. "Erik, I can't believe you came back after everything I did."

"I dislike unresolved issues," he replied with a shrug. "Be it music or anything else, I highly value completion."

"I see." She settled onto the bed and lay down on her stomach.

He went into the living area to the desk and began ironing out the last details. There were two possibilities. Perhaps Chagny had simply committed suicide and the vile woman was trying to make it look like murder out of pure vengeance, going so far as to manipulate the results of the autopsy. That was his best guess, although it vastly overestimated her power and intelligence. The other alternative was that someone _had_ assisted the boy that night. Either way, he would resolve this. Even if the Chagny family were wealthy, they were nothing compared to what he had faced in the past.

When he'd decided on the cleanest course of action, he began to work on a new composition for awhile, a slower piece that had been on his mind over the last few days. The hours passed as they always did when he composed, the notes soothing and calming him as they traveled up and down the scales. He didn't even hear her get out of bed, only the set of footsteps behind him. He turned. "Yes? Do you need something?"

Her face was rather pale. "I just…woke up. What are you doing?"

"Another song," he replied. "Do not fret about trying to sing it. It is more of a hobby now. You reintroduced music into my life, you know?"

She settled onto a cushioned chair beside him, watching. It was slightly unsettling; he could feel a tension in his body, almost a fear of her. Whether she knew it or not, Christine now had power. No one had ever had power over him before. He disliked the feeling. The feeling.

"What did you do before? I mean, before you met me and started writing music."

He inwardly cringed. "I was self-employed in Mexico."

"Doing what?" He didn't answer her. "Doing something…illegal?"

He sighed. "Have you been talking to Anne?"

"She won't tell me anything."

"Yes, I have been hearing that complaint often these days."

"What?"

"Nothing." What was the point in secrets now? "There is an unofficial but profitable war down there. Thousands have died, and I was merely a more fortunate participant." Her face scrunched up in confusion. "Yes, I have participated in activities that most civilized members of society would frown upon. Does that answer you, girl?"

"Have you ever…hurt anyone?"

"No one whom will be dearly missed. Survival of the fittest, you know? But I did not harm your husband. I would swear upon a Bible, but I'm an atheist, so it wouldn't mean much, right? But I did not kill that boy."

Christine studied him so long that he nearly twitched in discomfort. "I believe you," she finally said. "I believe you because I know I did that."

"Do not be ridiculous."

"The people who care about me all get hurt." Her brow furrowed. "Well, at least I'm nothing but a career to you, Erik. You don't care. That's good for you, isn't it?" She got up and turned to leave.

"Christine." He grabbed her wrist, his long fingers circling all the way around her tiny bone. She turned toward him, and he saw an inordinate amount of pain in her pretty eyes. _No, it was far from the right time._ "Do not be alarmed if I am gone at certain hours of the night. I am only attempting to clear your name, and I will do so in the cleanest way possible."

She nodded. "I'll stay here. I don't really have anywhere else to be, right?"

"Let me know if you require anything. Food, drink…all of that."

"I will. Thank you for helping me." She walked back to the bed.

Once or twice that night, he heard her softly crying. He was unsure of what to say as it was impossible for him to mourn over Chagny with her. In his eyes, she was finally free in more ways than one. _He_ was much better when it came to action, and so he focused on that.

Over the next night, he kept an eye on the Chagny house, observing the family entering and exiting, catching pieces of conversation. They seemed rather miserable, not conniving as one might expect. He also kept an eye on Anne's house. Two officers came searching for Christine early the next morning. Anne told them that she was still in town but keeping to herself at an unknown location. The police were clearly aggravated and pressed her for details that she could not give them. Soon, there would be an official search for Christine. It was time to end this before the situation escalated.

There were several ways to go about it. He could attempt to find the truth. Or he could say to hell with the truth and merely intimidate the Chagnys into leaving her alone. The first was preferable though more difficult, but the second was a good enough option. Who gave a damn what had really happened? Christine was innocent.

She continued to sleep much of the following day. He brought her a sandwich, and she consumed a quarter of it. He placed a can of her favorite soda on the nightstand, but it remained unopened. She would watch him, but he couldn't read her eyes. Was she simply depressed over the boy? He supposed it would take her awhile to mend, but did she really need to wither away? Could she not at least eat something? Christ, she was going to become as thin as he was.

He finally resorted to desperate measures, producing the parrot and the robin for her enjoyment late that afternoon. She actually smiled as they sang, lying on her stomach with her head propped up in her hands.

"You are very lovely," the robin told her at the end. "I could sing all day for you."

"Oh yes," agreed the parrot. "You are a queen and worthy of the highest songs of praise."

"Thank you, Mr. Parrot," she replied with a smile. And then the birds flew away, and it was only the two of them. Christine stared at him. "Thank you," she repeated in a softer and more serious voice. To his relief, she hadn't completely become lost in the fantasy world. She at least knew of his efforts.

"Yes, well, a little something before I am off again tonight. This should all resolve itself soon."

"You'll be careful, right?" she asked. "I don't want you getting hurt for my sake."

He laughed. "Darling, this is nothing. Theresa Chagny is a loathsome ant, a pest to be crushed. Nothing more."

"I wish I could have seen her that way." She unhappily sighed. "I wish I could have stood up to her better."

"Yes, well, you will never have to worry about her again. I will free you from that family tonight."

True to his word, _he_ was soon staring through the picture window of the Chagny office. Clouds covered the night sky, blocking the moon and starlight. A haggard Henry was staring at the flames of a fireplace, the light reflecting off his glasses. He would pose no threat. Theresa was watching television in the den, sipping a glass of red wine with a grim expression. Phillip was lying on his back on a couch in the front living room, sometimes dozing and sometimes staring at the ceiling._ I am certainly not going to improve the mood. _

It was going to come down to intimidation. He still had no physical evidence that Christine had not returned that night. He could threaten Theresa's wealth, even the life of her oldest son. He could drive her mad with voice tricks and other devices. He could drive them all so insane that their words wouldn't hold up in court.

Just as he was beginning to test the windows for the easiest entrance, he sensed someone near him. A rock was kicked, and a twig crunched. Ducking behind a wall, he waited, blood warming in preparation for a fight.

Nadir appeared, dressed in jeans and a pressed black dress shirt and holding something.

"That is it!" he rasped. Some people were simply suicidal. "You have irritated me for the last time!"

Nadir jumped and took a step backward. "Erik! I knew you'd be…." After a moment, he gathered his resolve. "You think you're the only one who can creep around and investigate? I taught you part of what you know." He held up a piece of paper.

"What the hell is that?"

"Read it. Preferably before you kill me."

"I may reverse that sequence." After eyeing Nadir closely to be sure this was no trick, he grabbed the paper and opened it. It was high quality stationary paper with bluebirds in all four corners.

_To my loved ones,_

_This is my last goodbye to all those I care about. Please know this isn't anyone's fault. It's what I had to do. It was my time. _

_I love you, Dad. Thanks for all the baseball games and vacations and help with algebra. You're the best father I could have had. _

_Phillip, you're the best brother I could have had. I wish we could have played one last basketball game. I love you._

_I love you, Mom. I'm sorry for not amounting to what you thought I could be. Thank you for always looking out for me. _

_And to my beautiful wife. You deserve so much. You deserve to be free and to smile and to be with the one you love. Please be happy again, Christine. You were the best thing to ever happen to me, and I'm grateful for the time we spent together. I love you more than anything in the world. _

_Raoul_

Something heavy hung in the back of his throat. "Where did you find this?"

"In their library. Behind some legal texts. I believe the handwriting is legitimate."

"And they have not shown it to the police?"

"No. That is suspicious, isn't it?"

"Yes." _He_ considered it. "If someone removed the note before Christine arrived that morning, then someone was aware that the boy was dead. Yet they allowed poor Christine to discover the body."

Nadir nodded. "I would say so. I wanted to solve this matter before I left, if only for my own satisfaction. In my investigations, I would say someone is trying to hide something."

_He_ cast a glare toward the enormous home. "It is nearly time to pay the Chagny family a visit."

"Should I accompany you?"

"_No._ That I will do alone." He paused. "But make me several copies of this letter and guard the original with your life. Your life, Nadir."


	23. Chapter 23

**Thanks to everyone who left feedback. A big thanks to MadLizzy for her help. Almost there, guys. One more chapter and an epilogue after this.  
**

**Enjoy!**

The enormous house had become a tomb. One son was dead. The other seemed listless. The father was ill. The mother…well, that spoke for itself. It was the last who would first face his wrath. She deserved to finally have the living hell scared out of her.

"I think we are long past due for another conversation." His voice traveled around the den, an echoing and demonic whisper.

Theresa jumped up and put a hand against her heart. "Who's there?" she stuttered.

"Who do you think?" he teased.

Her response somewhat ruined the fun. "R-Raoul?"

"_No._ No one of any concern. Except where it comes to the lovely Christine Chagny." She started to open her mouth, eyes wide with terror. "Scream, and this night will not end well for you."

She began searching the room, likely looking for a potential weapon or the phone. Finally ducking out from behind an array of shelves that had every style of clay pot imaginable, he had her cornered against the wall before she could find anything.

"Get aw-!" He clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her. She put up both arms to defend herself.

"No one likes a liar," he began as she stared upwards. "Your son committed suicide, and you choose to make up a silly tale of murder, all to get revenge on some poor girl you've abused all these years." She tried to speak. "Are you going to scream, Mrs. Chagny?" She shook her head. He slowly removed his hand. "Now what were you saying?"

"I didn't make it up!" she half-snapped, unable to hide the quiver in her voice. "There wasn't enough medicine in his system. Someone suffocated him. Someone killed my baby, and it wasn't me! It was that bitch!"

"Refer to her with such words again, and I will slit your throat." She cowered; he composed himself. "I do not know what happened to your son. I don't care. It was not Christine."

"It had to have been," she stated. Her hands were shaking, but she stuck out her chin defiantly. "It had to! I know it was her!"

There was no lie in her eyes, only fear and hatred. So he went on to his next suspect, still not quite done tormenting the matriarch. Grabbing Theresa by the arm, _he_ threw her in front of him and wrapped a hand around her throat, thereby using her as a shield and a hostage. She yelped. "Call your son in here," he commanded into her ear.

"Why?" she weakly whispered. "He doesn't know anything."

He tightened his grip and calmly repeated, "Call your son."

She shivered but obeyed, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. "Phillip? Come here for a moment, dear. I need your help."

"What do you want, Mom?" asked an annoyed voice. Phillip groggily stumbled through the door and then started, eyes widening in disbelief. He grabbed the heaviest object available, a sculpture of a grey elephant sitting on a log. "Let my mother go!" he exclaimed, searching for the best way to aim. "Who the hell are you? We don't keep any cash here!"

"I am not a robber, although it is tempting. I have merely instructed your mother to cease her accusations against Christine. She is innocent."

"I'm going to call the cops." Phillip started to back up toward the door.

"Are you certain your mother will survive the wait? And, that aside, I will return. I will destroy your family name and make your lives completely miserable. You will never be rid of me. Do you have any doubt of that?"

Phillip stared at him, hesitating. "You're _him_, aren't you? The guy Christine was with the whole time. I knew it. I knew she was messing around. Her tastes are freakier than I thought."

"Her actions are no longer your concern, Mr. Chagny. She is in your lives no longer and would appreciate the same courtesy."

"Why should we?" Phillip growled. "He fucking died for her! Why shouldn't she get the blame?"

"Because, you idiot, she did not kill him!" He could feel his blood heating up and his grip around Theresa tightened even more. _He _then caught a strange flicker in Phillip's eyes. "Now, Mr. Chagny, let us be civil. Why do you say your brother died for Christine?"

The elephant fell limply to Phillip's side. "He told me she couldn't be happy with him anymore."

"Right before he died, he told you that?"

"Yes," Phillip snapped.

"So you were present."

Phillip paled. "No. I…. It was before. That night but before."

Theresa stopped struggling and stared at her oldest and now only child. _He_ loosened his grip on her slightly, wondering if her words could be of use now. "What?" she gasped.

"He told me that night," Phillip half-stuttered. "I mean, before…before someone killed him."

"Mr. Chagny, you're quite certain it was not suicide then? Yet you say he died for her. Odd."

"Yes!" Theresa exclaimed. "The coroner said—"

"I was not talking to you!"_ he_ growled and tightened his hold again.

"I don't know," whispered Phillip.

One arm still around Theresa, he took a copy of the note out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it in front of her face. She glanced downward against his bony hand to read it. Tears began to stream down her wrinkled cheeks. "Maybe it's a fake!" she choked out. "Maybe you and that b—girl wrote it!"

"It is a copy, but the note is very real and somewhere very safe. If you'd like, we will bring in a handwriting expert." He eyed Phillip again. "Odd that it was found in this home yet no one showed it to the police." The younger man was ghost white, lips drawn together. "Perhaps you should explain yourself for your dear mother's sake."

"Maybe I don't care about her," muttered Phillip. "Maybe I just don't give a damn."

"What is going on?" Theresa whispered. "Phillip, what is this monster talking about?"

Phillip leaned back against the wall as though backing away. "Fine. I found it. But I was so upset, I kept it in my pocket. My brother had just died, and I was really upset. Can't you understand that? I didn't remember until later. After Christine found him. "

"What are you saying?" Theresa asked. "If you found him first…if you knew…why didn't you call 9-11 right away? What were you thinking? You might have saved his life. Oh, what the _hell _were you thinking?"

"I don't _know_. Like I said, I was really upset."

_He_ spoke. "Mr. Chagny, did you assist your brother?" Phillip stared into space. "Mr. Chagny, everyone knows you're lying now. You can't even keep your facts straight."

"I…"

"Come now. No matter what your answer, it won't make the night end any worse for you than if you continue your assault on Christine. That is all I am concerned with."

"I found him," Phillip whispered.

"Alive?"

"Barely. He…he looked terrible, like he'd thrown up. Really pale, and...he was having a hard time breathing. I was going to call an ambulance. I swear to God. But he _begged_ me not to. He _screamed _at me not to! He was afraid he hadn't taken enough. He gave me the note. And he asked me if I could…. So…I…I got a pillow and…." He glared at Theresa. "Nothing is ever good enough for women, is it? You bitch and moan and play around. And then leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces. I hope Christine rots in jail. And I hope you just rot."

"You did it?" Theresa whispered, numb to anything else at that point. "You killed your own brother?"

"You and Christine killed him," he spat. "You screwed him over just as much as Christine did, Mom. That was why he wanted to die!"

"So." Odd how _he_ was now the voice of calm in all this. "At his request, you assisted your brother in death and forgot the note in your trauma. Not that I really fault you on that one, Mr. Chagny. There is something disconcerting about one's first murder, isn't there?"

Phillip only stared at the floor.

"I can't believe you!" Theresa screamed. "You killed him, you bastard!"

"Shut up!" he growled back at her.

_He_ simply continued. "Christine makes the discovery. And it's quickly determined that the boy didn't act alone."

Phillip buried his face in both hands and nodded.

"Had you produced that note later, you would have been rightly connected to his death. They would have asked why you did not show it to someone earlier or call for help. So you allow Christine to take the blame, and dear mother is happy to believe this. Am I so far off?"

"She deserved it," Phillip whispered. "She broke his heart. Christine deserved the blame. I didn't. I was just picking up the pieces…."

"My poor baby," Theresa cried. _He_ finally released his grip and allowed her to fall to her knees.

Now Phillip began to cry. "He begged me. He said death had cheated him! He begged me over and over and over. What was I supposed to do? No one else would help him. I had to make the choice because no one else would help him. "

"What is wrong with you?" Theresa hollered at him. "You should have called an ambulance!"

"So he could be your prisoner for the rest of his life?" growled Phillip. "I can see why death would have looked better!"

_He_ allowed Theresa to go to her son, half-walking and half-crawling. She grabbed Phillip by the shoulders and shook him, screaming in his face, "What is wrong with you?! What is wrong with you?!"

Phillip threw her off of him with one harsh shove. She landed on her side and began to sob into the carpet, banging her fists on the floor.

"I have no care whether you are incarcerated or not." He spoke directly to Phillip. "I have little reason to pass judgment. But I trust you will get Christine's name out of this?"

"She deserves to go to prison more than Phillip," Theresa spat. "Although _you_…." She glared at Phillip. "I want you out of my house!"

"You really doubt I won't make your lives utterly miserable if you continue your ridiculous crusade against Christine?" _he_ asked. "Perhaps I have this entire exchange recorded. Perhaps I don't. But I will ruin you."

"And if we agree," began Phillip. "You and her will be gone forever. You won't ask for money? You'll…leave me alone."

He hadn't gotten this far in life by making stupid bargains. "Oh, if I want her to take her share of the wealth, she will. I get what I want. But she will break all connections to this madness. The police will receive the note. And then you will find a way to clear her name. It shouldn't be difficult, given all your connections."

"But she—" Theresa began before Phillip interrupted her.

"Mom, if you don't let it go, I am going to leave. Forever. And I'm going to take Dad with me. And then you'll be completely alone."

"I'm already alone," Theresa stated with a sob. "You killed my best friend! I have no one now."

"And whose fault is that?" asked Phillip. "Whose goddamned fault is that?"

"We are understood?" _he_ asked. "I will be watching."

"Yes," Phillip muttered, burying his face in his hands. "Just get her out of our lives."

"Gladly."

"What's going on in here?" Henry Chagny's weak voice floated in from outside the room.

Theresa glared toward the sound. "You and your father are just alike. Two _losers_. Raoul was the only good one, and you killed him. _You killed him!_"

"Shut up," Phillip whispered, shaking his head. "Just shut up."

And that was where _he_ left, leaving them in an oozing puddle of their own dysfunction, a brief reminder as to why he was sometimes grateful that he'd never had relatives. Suddenly, he pitied Raoul Chagny.

* * *

He paced around the room like a caged tiger, waiting for her to awaken so that he could share the news. When she finally did open her eyes and sit up, he ran to her so quickly that she nearly shrunk backward. Rarely had he felt such enthusiasm after finishing a mission. Usually, he was simply handed a suitcase of money. But this…this was its own kind of reward. The smile on her face would be the grandest prize ever given to him. "The matter is over now," he stated. "My dear, you are free."

"Free? What?" She blinked several times, hair tousled from sleep and a light sheen of perspiration on her brow. It looked as though she'd just stepped out of a nightmare.

"You will not be charged for the crime. Your name will be cleared, and you can continue with your life. The world is now yours."

"What happened to Raoul?" She leaned in, fingers anxiously curling around the top of the blanket. "Did you find out?"

He shrugged, unable to help but be disappointed by her lack of joy. _Girl, what else do you want from me?_ "It does not matter now, does it? You did not do it. I did not do it."

"Erik, please tell me. I need to know what happened. Was it an accident?"

"Yes, a terrible accident."

She stared at him for several seconds. "I...don't believe you."

"Curious Christine, can you never be happy?"

"Erik, _please_."

He sighed. "It was Phillip Chagny."

"What?" Her eyes widened in horror. "No! That's horrible! Why would Phillip kill Raoul? That doesn't make any sense! They were like best friends!"

"Does it really matter now? It is over."

"Why would Phillip do that? We should tell someone!"

He considered lying to her. _Cain and Abel?_ _Sibling rivalry to the extreme? _ But then she would want to turn Phillip into the police, and that would be its own nightmare. Tonight was the end of all lies. "It was an assisted action."

"Erik, you're not making any sense."

"It was your husband's request." Ignoring the agony on her face, he reluctantly handed her a copy of the note. When she was finished reading it, she dropped the paper to her lap, tears streaming down her pale cheeks and staining the paper. There was no going back at that point; something within her finally broke.

"Then I did do it," she sobbed, her entire body trembling. "He knew. He did it for me. I killed him!"

"You did nothing!" he retorted. "He simply could not tolerate his condition. Perhaps he was tired of the struggle. Perhaps he was in pain. I do not know. But it has nothing to do with you, understand? You were not responsible for saving him!"

"No, you're wrong. You're—" She shook her head and turned away. "I need to be alone for a moment. _Please._"

Shaking his head, thoroughly drained, he stood and left her there, suddenly without a plan. He could allow her to mourn; it was understandable. But the situation was beyond him and his life experiences; she was falling apart piece by piece and he no longer had any idea as to what to do with her. He could not fix her. For the first time in very many years, he was helpless.

Finally, her sobs faded away. He peeked into the room. She was sitting at the window now, staring outside. Shadows played across her as the curtains swayed back and forth. Her hair hung limply at the sides of her face, blown slightly by the air conditioner, her arms folded in her lap. He was going to leave her alone, but she spoke without looking at him.

"Erik?" Her voice was still tear-choked. "Why have you done so much for me? You've saved me more times than I can count."

He hesitated. "I told you why."

"Because I'm your profit. That's really all? You just help me for the money?"

"I told you. I do it for the art as well."

"And that's all?" Her voice quivered. He didn't reply. "Erik?" She turned to face him.

"It is not important. It is done now."

"I need to know. I don't even know what's real anymore."

Ten seconds passed before he finally answered. "I am a fantastic liar. I even thwarted a lie detector one time, you know? But, darling, even you should have been able to see through that one. Even you…."

"See through what?" she whispered.

"You reintroduced music into my life; your voice awakened something within me. I've thought of little else but you over the last year, try as I might to pretend otherwise. _All _has revolved around you. You make me…laugh. No one has ever uttered those three words you said to me. And when you told me that you would no longer sing or see me, I nearly lost what sanity I have. Of course you are not merely profit. Or art."

"Then what am I?" she desperately asked. "What are you trying to tell me? What do you want from me?"

"I don't expect anything of you. Not so soon. Perhaps this is not even a conversation worth having right now. It all became a bit of a terrible mess, didn't it? I do not even know how we arrived here. What am I trying to tell you, Christine? Oh..." A shudder ran through his body. He turned around, no longer able to look at her, only feel her piercing gaze on the back of his head. He again wished to disappear, but he remained frozen in place, barely able to mouth the soft words, "I love you."

She stood behind him, but it took him several moments before he could face her again, his heart racing. No moment in his life had made him this vulnerable, and that was saying quite a bit. Her left hand rose to his right cheek, and she guided his masked face parallel to hers, staring him directly in the eye. Their breaths were audible. The pulse throbbed in her neck. Her right hand rose to his left cheek, both her thumbs now stroking the areas beneath his eyes.

It wasn't that he didn't react quickly enough. He could have easily stopped her, but some part of his subconscious allowed her to do what she did next. He had wanted her to know.

The tips of her fingers traveled to the sides of his face, toward the edges of the false, rubbery skin. Pressing her fingertips against his head, she gently peeled the mask back from his flesh with both hands, all the while looking him in the eye. "I just need to see you," she whispered before pulling it off all the way with her right hand. Her arm fell limply to the side, the mask half folding in on itself.

They stared at each other for several agonizing seconds. _Click, click, click._ The air conditioner turned off. Her face remained expressionless.

His heart plunged as she burst into tears and buried her face into her hands, collapsing to her knees so hard that the floor shook. The mask dropped to the carpet like melted candle wax. "Oh, God. It's too much," she sobbed. "I can't take it! I can't take it anymore! I can't!"

Covering his face with both hands, he leapt away from her, a searing pain ripping through his heart. No wonder the boy was ready to die; the girl was venom in the veins. In a quick motion, he then scooped the mask off the floor and plastered it back onto his face, once against sheltered in its confines. "Well, darling." His voice was hoarse, broken. "That was inevitable, wasn't it? I suppose it always was. Yes, in the end, it all came down to that. It always has."

"No, you don't understand!" Face still in her hands, she madly shook her head back and forth, hair wildly flying in every different direction. "I can't, I can't! I don't have anything left to give anyone. I can't take it! I'm going to lose my mind!"

Perhaps if he hadn't been so wounded, he would have noted that the loathing in her voice was entirely self-directed. But he had his pride. And sometimes pride, just like love, is blinding…and deafening.

"As I said, my dear, you're free now. From everyone and everything. Free from the boy and now free from the monster. Run while you can."

He started to storm toward the door, ignoring her heaving sobs, but she grabbed the end of his suit. "Erik. Erik, please!"

He whirled toward her again so fast that she fell backward. "Please _what_? _What do you want from me?_"

"I don't know," she practically gasped. "I can't think right now. My head is a mess. All these thoughts are going around and around and around, and..._he_ just died and my father died, and I can't...I'm not good for anyone. Everyone dies. And I can't think. I really can't think anymore!"

"Christine-"

"Erik, please say you'll come back. Please promise me you will. If I have that... Please. Please give me time. I need time to figure out why everything I touch turns into a mess. I need that, or I may go insane."

He stared down at her, palms facing outward. "Why? Why would I return to this? It is madness. And, after everything, you cannot even stand to look at me. You could not even look, Christine! So why would you ask Erik back? _Why?_" Dropping his arms to his sides, he started to walk toward the door but paused when he remembered something. Reaching into his pocket, he returned to where she knelt. "Here." He thrust the ring at her. "You may have this now."

She stared before slowly taking the object into her shaking hand as the tears continued to fall. Her eyes were nearly vacant, her voice hollow. "But why do you have…."

"Why do you think, Christine Chagny? Why the hell do you think? It was a piece of you. It has always been about you_._"

"Please," she whispered, staring down at the glistening ring and then slowly gazing back up. "I don't even know who _I_ am anymore." She started to raise a shaking hand toward him.

He turned and left her there, in a pile on the floor, letting the heavy door slam behind him with an echoing crash that ripped through the hallways and shook the pictures on the walls. She was sick. Everyone…Anne and the Chagny family and Christine…they were all sick. He needed to go before he caught the infection of humanity.

But perhaps he had already been infected. Despite everything, it was not rage that dominated his heart and mind. He felt more devastated than anything. _Felt…. _

The sun had barely begun to rise. Wandering into the streets and stumbling down the sidewalk, he was awakened. Sickened and horrified and ashamed and angry and yet somehow more alive. Awake and alive.

Somehow he found Nadir. The idiot was packing his suitcase, meticulously folding a white dress shirt and matching a pair of navy blue ironed socks.

"Erik? Can't you ever knock? Ugh. Never mind. I was trying to contact you. Everything should be set with the note and-" He squinted. "Are you all right? You look completely ill."

"Yes. Yes, Nadir. I am fine." The pain was still sharp, slicing through his heart and into his stomach. He placed a hand on the nearest shelf to steady himself.

"Erik?" Nadir dropped a sock and approached. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Call Anne Giry and tell her where Christine is."

"Is she okay? It's not the Chagny family, is it?"

"No, no, no. She's free. We did what we set out to do, no?"

"You did everything for that girl," said Nadir after a moment, perhaps beginning to understand. "If she doesn't appreciate it, then-"

"Hush! Hush, or I will kill you. Not another unkind word about her. She can certainly drive a man to an early grave; there's obviously no doubt of that. But I _feel_ something, Nadir. I haven't felt anything in my entire life. At least not since I was a small child. But I did. I can feel again. And it's terrible and wretched. But I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten what it was like to really care about anything." _He_ buried his face into his hands, feeling unfamiliar wetness near the eye holes of the mask. "Oh," he softly moaned. "I need to finally get away from here now. Away from her. And maybe then I can make some sense of it. I need to get away. Before she pushes me completely over the edge. If I am not already over it."

Nadir granted him a moment to compose himself before softly asking, "Where will you go?"

"I suppose…wherever I am needed. Nadir, I think I am alive again. And it feels like hell."


	24. Chapter 24

We have almost made it. Just a little epilogue to go. I could give you a long story about why I wrote this phic in the first place, almost three years ago, or as ALW calls it-once upon another time ;) But I think it is what it is now. Take from it what you want to.

Please check my profile over the next few days for information about upcoming stories and such. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me. And, as always, a big thank you to MadLizzy.

**Enjoy!**

_He _saved the city.

Actually, he saved a city and a suburb and an adjacent county in under one year.

Well, not exactly saved, but…reorganized?

It kept his mind busy, and the tasks were somewhat entertaining. Sometimes he was a spy. He'd pretend to be interested in making a drug deal or operating a money laundering scheme, infiltrating organized crime circles. He certainly looked shady enough for the part. Occasionally, he was an extra physical force, or he could use his voice and fast reflexes to torment and distract. There were rumors of a phantom man, but no one ever found out who he was. Nadir always handled the arrests and kept his identity under wraps. And always made sure_ he_ was financially compensated. He did rather well for himself, on several fronts. Of course, Nadir received public credit, but _he_ preferred it that way. He did not want to be a hero.

The last thing he needed was to dwell on her, although even on the busiest of days he couldn't really help it. It took a full month for the pain to dull even slightly, a month where he'd often disappear to obscure locations, holding his head in his hands and reminding himself of reasons to keep going. Aside from occasional business meetings with Nadir, he remained in solitude. Music was his only real companion and probably the only way he stayed sane. Still, a sense of recklessness would sometimes come upon him.

Late one night, purely on a strange impulse, he had walked unnoticed into an upscale bar, sat down at the grand piano, and begun to play. He played even as people began to stand and gather around him, murmuring in wonder and curiosity as his fingers flew up and down across the keys. It had been somewhat invigorating, holding their rapt attention, as though he held power over the entire room. That is, until he'd found a poor quality video online the next morning with over five thousands hits and the caption: "Mysterious pianist at bar! You gotta listen to this! Wow!" Below that were comments speculating about his identity.

He'd shuddered and berated himself. If he ever brought that much attention to himself again, his face would eventually end up plastered all over the web and television screens. In this modern world, it was inevitable. No, the only way his music could thrive was through the hands…or voice of another.

Unable to help himself, he watched the papers and checked the Internet for news of her. Perhaps she had picked up with her career again, he hoped. But there was nothing, not a word of Christine Chagny. His mind wavered between undying love, anger, and fear for what had become of her. _Forget her. She is as vapid as the rest of the world. Precious but shallow. Let the girl go. _

An old business contact eventually got into touch with him. A multi-millionaire in Brazil wanted a high tech security system to keep the riffraff away. The man was an unapologetic capitalist who thrived on the edge and made money where he could. It sounded like the ideal environment for escaping one's nightmares.

"I am leaving," he told Nadir over drinks one night. "I think I have done all I want to do here."

"Well, I could always use your help," Nadir replied. "But you have certainly done your share." He paused and lowered his voice. "Where are you heading?"

"As though I would tell you the details. A new project."

"I trust it's not entirely wholesome."

He shrugged. "It's rather neutral. Something to keep me busy for awhile. Mental stimulation, if you will."

"Well, enjoy yourself. Thank you for coming back here."

"I trust you won't follow me?" He smirked behind the mask. Nadir would always try to keep tabs on him.

"Never," he replied with a tipsy grin. His face turned serious again. "Please take care, Erik."

He had planned to leave the country immediately and never look back. The borders contained too much pain and too many memories; perhaps a change of scenery and culture would make him finally forget. His mind was constantly pestered, though, and he couldn't fool himself into completely not caring. He had to know. Even if she didn't know of his presence, he wanted to know what had become of her. It was obvious as to where to begin his investigation.

"Anne, Anne, Anne."

"Erik," she murmured. She didn't look so well, older perhaps, and she let him inside without a moment's hesitation. The house was very quiet and tidy-almost eerily so, as though no one actually lived there.

"How are you?" she asked. "Keeping out of trouble?"

"Of course not." He paused, feeling the silence penetrate the home. "How is Meg?"

Anne's lips pursed. "She calls every so often now, and she visited about six months ago. I think she's going to community college. And she still dances." A smile that was as sad as her eyes formed on her lips. "I'm so happy she still dances."

"She is strong and will be fine, I'm sure."

"Yes," Anne agreed. "So much stronger than me. I just hope she forgives me. I never meant to hurt her like I did."

He wasn't sure how much Anne knew about what Meg had learned. He left it there, though. "Where is_ she_?"

Anne looked down at her wrinkled hands. "I don't know."

"You do not know?" He tensed. "Surely you know something, Anne. Let us not play these silly games again."

"No, Erik. I really don't. She came back with me for about two months, told me what happened with the Chagny family. Thank goodness that was resolved. So sad…that poor boy killed himself, but at least Christine wasn't found responsible. I'm guessing we have you to thank?" She eyed him.

"Perhaps."

"Anyway, she never said much while she was with me, always staring out the window or listening to music by herself. And then, one morning, I went to her room and she was gone. All her things were missing, too. She called me once and told me she would be okay. I begged her to come back, Erik. I knew she wasn't doing well…mentally, I mean. I had even tried to get her professional help. But she said she needed to be alone, and I haven't heard from her since."

His heart skipped a beat. Sometimes he wished his heart would stop-not in a suicidal way. He wished it would simply leave him alone as it had before. He hesitated. "Did she say anything of me in all that time?" It angered him as soon as the question left his lips—so much weakness in each desperate word.

"Once," Anne murmured. "The last night she was here, Christine was staring out the back window. She was crying. And she said, 'He's not going to come back, is he, Anne?' I misunderstood and told her that Raoul was in a better place and would always watch over her. But she shook her head and said, 'No. That's not what I…never mind.' We didn't talk anymore, but I realized she was referring to you." Anne hesitated. "What happened the last time you were with her?"

"Nothing," he lied. "We simply completed our final transactions." He paused. "But perhaps it is time that I check on her."

"Yes. Please let me know if she's well. Then again, maybe Christine has never been exactly well."

"Indeed."

There was no Christine Chagny in any recent records. No one had heard of her within the last year; few remembered the timid blonde singer. He then completed a search for Christine Daae, thinking perhaps she had taken on her father's name now. That name didn't exist either. But….

_Charlotte Daae. _The individual had an account on a site where one could upload vocal clips. They had no songs listed yet, and the personal details were very sparse. Still, it certainly caught his attention. The last name was still fairly rare, and the location was in the nearest city. The first initial was the same. It was worth a moment of his time, no? His search for the name and address led him to a decrepit brick apartment building, three stories high, in an older and lower income section of the city.

"I am looking for someone," he told the bald, greasy landlord late one evening. "Charlotte Daae. You will tell me her room number."

The man squinted and scratched the back of his head. "I don't just give out that kind of information to strange men for free."

He could have threatened but didn't want the idiot to draw anyone's attention. Instead, he produced two hundred dollar bills. "You will tell me," he repeated.

"Yeah, sure." He eagerly grabbed the money. "She's in 128. It's this basement room that I managed to convert and rent at half-price. Don't see her around much. You a john or something?"

To hell with threatening. He nearly committed murder right there. "Why the hell would you ask _that_?" he growled, grabbing him by the front of the shirt. "What do you know?"

"Woah, woah, woah," he gasped. "I don't know anything. That's just the kind of gal we sometimes get around here. This place isn't exactly the Hilton, ya know? I assumed…."

"If you _assume_ anything else, you won't see tomorrow." He pushed him away in disgust and went on a search for Room 128 that night, still shaking with anger. It was unnerving—how much he cared.

Her askew blinds were drawn but broken, and he glanced through into her little room.

A woman was lying on a bed, one skinny leg strewn over the side. She slept in her clothing, jeans and a green sweatshirt, her long, blonde hair wildly fanning out onto the pillow. The television was on and set at a low volume. The room wasn't tidy. A plate and glass on the nightstand. A candy wrapper on an armchair. A soda bottle on the floor. One glance, though, and he knew that it was her. She'd never had an interest in housekeeping; he'd found it endearing.

The place was easier to break into than a twenty-four hour convenience store. He entered the basement apartment and stared down at her for a moment, feeling nothing but raw affection, before finally making himself comfortable in a tattered armchair at the corner of the room. He'd seen worse in his lifetime, but he doubted she had.

Christine woke hours later, her face somewhat gaunt. She stretched and yawned, blinking in the dusty lamplight. She checked the time and seemed displeased with it. Too early, perhaps? Grabbing a remote, she turned off the television and started to settle back into bed. Her gaze almost passed right over him before returning to the chair. Her eyes slowly focused, and she sat up straight, staring and pressing the covers to her chest with a soft gasp. Despite Anne's words, he prepared himself for screams. None came. "Erik."

"No need to phone the police. I merely came to wish you well."

"Oh." It was almost a choke.

"I am leaving the country, possibly permanently. You needn't worry about seeing me again. But I thought I would perhaps part on better terms. As I said, I am not fond of incompletion and loose ends." He managed to keep his voice cool.

"Oh…."

"I see you are going by a different name."

It took her a second to reply. "My maiden name…. And one of my favorite books from when I was a kid."

"Ah._ Charlotte's Web__**.**_"

"You remembered," she whispered.

"Indeed." He glanced around the messy room. "Are you still singing?"

"I try…sometimes." Her gaze drifted to the floor. "But I'm not really sure if I have it anymore."

"I am sure you still _have it_. You will always have it." She shrugged, gripping the edges of the blanket and watching him. "Are you able to support yourself?"

"The money I made singing with you lasted for a little while. Raoul's family couldn't keep everything away from me. And I guess when it's all gone…maybe I'll teach piano again. Something. I don't know. I just try to…get by."

"Yes," he murmured. "Don't we all?"

Her answer had relieved him, but he still wanted to ask what the hell all this was. Why was she living like this? Rent hadn't risen that much. Anne would have let her stay forever. _And why had she lost her voice?_

And he wanted to run a hand through her silky hair and touch her skin; he would have killed for another kiss. _He_ closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. It was time to get out of here; it was torture to both see her like this and remember the rejection. She was unharmed; perhaps that was good enough. "Anything you need before I go?" He stood. She stared and her lips parted, but she didn't say anything. "Fine, then. Good luck to you."

He managed to hold himself together as he walked toward the door. Why had he come here in the first place? What the hell had he been thinking? Was he a masochist? He would be fine once he got far away from here. Back to his work and purpose. Back to numb. He started up the concrete stairs, the moon illuminating his path to semi-sanity.

"_Erik!_"

_No. Please, no. I hate you. I love you. _

"_Erik! Erik!"_

Of course he turned around. She was standing in the doorway and yelling at him, looking a complete mess in her wrinkled clothes and disheveled hair. Arms limp at her sides, she said his name again. "Erik."

"What?"

"I need to talk to you. Please."

He stared down at her for a full five seconds. "You are incredibly confused."

"Maybe so…. But not about this. I've wanted to talk to you all this time. You just showed up so suddenly that I was kind of shocked. I don't know why; you always show up suddenly. But if you go now-" She rapidly shook her head, clearing her cobwebs. "I know I look like a wreck. I'm glad my dad and Raoul can't see me right now. But you can see me. And maybe that's even worse."

"Why would it be worse? You can barely stand the sight of me." Against his better judgment, he began to walk downstairs again, watching to see if she would back away. Christine merely stepped to the side, giving him entrance.

"No, I…I was going to eventually try to find you. But I wanted to be a lot better. I mean, I _am_ better. You should have seen me in those first months, and I'm so much better now. But I'm still not completely together-obviously." She laughed nervously. "Listen to me go on and on like a crazy person. But, Erik, I'm so glad you're here!"

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated. "Wasn't it obvious?"

He stood there, waiting for her to explain. He wasn't going to play stupid guessing games.

She sighed and gave in. "I know I was a nightmare that day we last saw each other. My husband had just died, and I blamed myself. I was sure it was all my fault. I'd barely slept or eaten. And I could see that you loved me, and I was terrified of ruining your life. It was too much. I had a nervous breakdown that day." She paused. "The next thing I remember after you left the room is Anne shaking me by the shoulders and asking what was wrong. I was so out of it."

"You're lying. I do not blame you; it is hideous. I tried to tell you it was repulsive long ago! Did you know the members of my first foster family of memory referred to me as Skeleton Head? On Halloween, they would show my face to the children that came by the house in search of candy—as though I were a goddamned decoration. You do not need to lie or explain yourself."

She reached for him, but he flinched away. He didn't want her sympathy.

"Please listen to me, Erik. In some ways, your face made me feel…even more pathetic. Here you were dealing with that your entire life, and you keep going. But there I was, falling apart and losing my mind right in front of you. Erik? Please look at me. Whatever happens today, you have to believe this."

"This is utterly exhausting," he whispered. He didn't want to dwell on it any longer; just being in the same room with her was making him miserable. "You have said your well-rehearsed piece and cleared your conscience, and it is time that I go. I wish you the best and harbor no ill will. Truly, I wish you happiness."

"Then believe this," she begged. "After you left that day, after I snapped out of it, I went to the room where we first practiced and cried. I went there for a month while I lived with Anne, hoping you'd magically show up. But you never came." She shrugged and glanced down. "Maybe that's a good thing, though. I was still a wreck. Even if I'd found you, I don't think I'd have been of any use."

"You will always be of use," he murmured.

She held her arms against her chest, nearly hugging herself, and continued. "Anne…she made me go to a psychiatrist, but I never had much to say to him. He finally said I was just really depressed and prescribed some pills. They made things even more confusing, kind of fuzzy, and I didn't take them like I was supposed to."

He was glad about this-until she continued. If possible, her face became whiter.

"I left Anne's house so I wouldn't be a burden anymore. I was more alone than I have ever been in my entire life. So…one day, I took a walk in the middle of the night and ended up at this really high bridge. I just wanted to stop feeling so sad and lonely; maybe I thought I'd even see my dad and Raoul on the other side. But I couldn't even get myself to look over the ledge. I was too scared to even do that." She laughed sickly. "I bet you think I'm really pathetic."

"No," he whispered as her words settled like stones in the pit of his stomach. No one could lie that well, including him. "I do not think that."

"How can you not?"

He hesitated; it was not a place he wanted to venture, but the utter honesty was gleaming in her eyes. "Christine, take what you know of me. You don't think when I was younger, freshly out of the enchanting foster system with a face like mine, a checkered background, and few opportunities…you don't think I stared over the ledge of a bridge or two early in my lifetime?"

"But you kept going."

He shrugged. "The feelings fade. And then you simply live for the next endorphin rush…the next high…the next hit and payoff…. Until…I suppose you either die naturally or find something that makes life worthwhile."

She slowly nodded. "Yes. And, even if my dad and husband were dead, I knew you were still here. Even if you were gone, you were alive." A warm feeling formed in his chest. She stared off to the side before continuing. "Anyway, I moved here because Florida doesn't have a lot of other basements, and I wanted to be away from everyone. For about a month, I stayed in bed and hated myself. And then, for awhile, I hated everyone else for leaving and just felt sorry for myself."

"That is…understandable."

"About five months ago, I finally got up and went for a walk. And then to the mall. I got a haircut, and that made everything a little bit better. So I kept going." She looked down at her blonde strands. "I could probably use another one, huh? Maybe a manicure, too."

"You look fine." She did.

"I remembered how happy I was when I was singing. That was real happiness, even though I felt guilty about it if half the time. So I auditioned for a musical. I changed my name in case anyone remembered that awful business with the Chagnys. I had this silly plan to become a famous singer all by myself. I would make both of us really proud, right? But my voice-it wasn't what it used to be, and I didn't get the role. That was another…hard day. But I still want to sing."

"I am sure that you only need a bit of fine-tuning," he gently replied. "Nothing has changed."

"No… everything's changed."

He didn't argue with that.

They sat in silence for a long time, her on the bed and him in the chair. The sun began to rise, but very little light leaked into the room. A car radio blared, and a horn honked. _Damn, he'd planned to leave before daytime._

"What have you been doing?" she finally asked.

"A bit of this. A bit of that."

She smiled. "Well, where are you going?"

"A new project." It suddenly seemed inconsequential. "In Brazil."

"For how long?"

"I do not know. At least a couple of years."

"Do you think you'll have fun?"

"I am not doing it for _fun_. It is income."

Christine slowly reached over to take his hand. He hesitantly allowed it, feeling her give his palm a squeeze. She was so warm. "What if I asked you to stay? Not forever, if you don't want. I'm not as exciting as Brazil. But for a little while." He stared at her, sensing her skin. "I know things aren't perfect, but…they never will be. So…."

"I do not think that is wise."

"Why?" The wisp of pain was evident in her voice.

"Many reasons."

"Please tell me. So I can understand."

"I have not been the same since I met you," he replied, withdrawing his hand from hers. "I do not know if I like that, Christine. I used to move from place to place with little care, taking what I needed, from one escapade to the next. I was completely free. And now…now I am constantly haunted and half-sick. I dislike it."

"Haunted by what?"

"I do not know. I suppose…by the knowledge of what I may have been lacking. I have done a great many things, some of which are made of nightmares, but nothing ever compared to the music. To you."

Her eyes widened with what could only be hope. "Then why not stay?"

"What makes you think I am even what you need?" His voice grew harsher. "You know my history—or at least enough to know my hands are far from clean. And I used you, in the beginning, for financial gain. As well as for the satisfaction of seeing how skilled of a manipulator I could be. I used you with little remorse."

"The entire time?"

"No," he admitted. "There was a point where it began to change."

"Yes, well, I was using you to save Raoul. And then it changed, too."

"Yes, but Christine, I am still a far cry from a little house with a picket fence and a dog. I will never really be part of ordinary society."

She held out her palms and gestured toward the small room. "Does this look like _ordinary society_?"

"No, but I am still not what you-"

"No more martyrs!" she interrupted with anger that surprised him. Her voice softened, but an edge remained. "Raoul gets to be that; he decided to _die _so I could be happy, so he gets to be that. We're still alive. Erik, you were right back then. I blamed myself for everything that happened and tried to make everyone else happy, and I was a really miserable person. I don't want to be like that anymore. I just want to live." She paused then added, "And who said I wanted a dog? Maybe a cat. Or a bird." She smiled at him, her eyes a little teary, and he felt the corners of his lips twitch.

"What about a cat and a bird?"

"I don't think that would be as nice."

"Dearest, Christine," he murmured. "I have never known quite what to make of you. You are curious, you know? Perhaps that is why I have never been quite able to let go…."

"I never let go. I never stopped thinking about you. I love you. Do you still love me?"

He didn't answer. He _knew_ the answer, but his pride was still strong. The shadows in his mind were still taunting him, like monstrous puppets slithering up to mock him and tell him that this was all an impossibility.

"Would you be unhappy with me?" And that was when he heard her try very hard to hide the quiver of fear in her voice. It relieved him, that weak moment, and he could suddenly see her sitting there in all her imperfections, fighting to hold it all together, battling to get through each minute. Perhaps their worlds were not so different.

"I do not believe so." He paused. He owed her honesty. "No. No, I would not be unhappy. Quite the opposite."

The relief that spread over face made her appear ten years younger. She stood and now grabbed both of his hands with her own, clasping their fingers together. "Then, Erik, please stay for awhile. Please don't punish me for that awful day. I promise I'll keep pulling myself together. There are bad days and I'll still have them, but I have been trying. I managed to get dressed, right?"

"Yes, but you wore the clothes to bed, so I do not know if I grant sanity credit or not."

She laughed and squeezed his hands. "Like I said. _Trying._ I just fell asleep with the television on. The _god awful _television._" _ She pointed to the wall. "And see? I put a picture up."

"Where?"

She looked. "Oh. Well, I did put one up, but it fell because the walls here are really, really un—" She shook her head. "Oh well. It was a framed poster advertising _Carmen_. You'd like it."

Her voice tapered off, and she stared down at him. And then she bent down. She kissed him once on his masked cheek and then once on the plastic lips. Taking one of her hands back, she touched the edge of his mask, but he stopped her. "One step at a time," he hoarsely said. "_Trying_, as you put it. My mind needs time to adjust, as does yours."

"I won't remove it all the way," she whispered. "Just the very bottom. I promise." He didn't have it in him to stop her. He only closed his eyes and allowed her to do what she wanted, bracing himself. While his lack of a visible nose and hollowed eyes were by far his worst features, his mouth wasn't exactly pleasant. He waited.

And then he received his first real kiss.

Only received; he had nothing to give back as he was far too shocked to do anything when her lips gently brushed against his. Feared in multiple cities around the world, by police and criminals alike, and here a simple kiss was the most frightening moment of his life.

She drew back and smiled, tears in the corner of her eyes. "Time to adjust," she softly repeated his words. "Are you going to give us time, Erik?"

"If you do that again," he began, out of breath, "you might have an impossible time forcing me out. How is that for a threat?" But she kissed him a second time, more forcefully, wrapping both her arms around his shoulders. His hand finally rose to her waist, and he tilted his head upwards slightly in an attempt to return it. She was still far more skilled at this task. Her warm lips remained on his cold, dry ones until the temperature became even. He felt a little lost when she finally withdrew, a little alone.

She had a close-lipped smile and a flush of red in her cheeks. "Well," she said after a moment, hands folded behind her back. "I'm going to make us something to eat. You are…staying for breakfast, right?"

His mask was back in place, and she likely couldn't tell that he was gaping at her. "I suppose so," he finally managed to reply. "Who would want to find their way through the morning rush hour? Ghastly idiots lying on their horns. The transportation systems in this country are hideous."

"Oh, absolutely hideous," she agreed, trying to hide a smile. "It'd be a terrible time to go." She was so delightfully odd sometimes. And he remembered why he'd fallen so completely for her in the first place.

He remained there for the day, and they shared a quiet breakfast of scrambled eggs and a late meal of pasta and tomato sauce from a jar. While he did possess moderate culinary skills, she severely lacked ingredients, utensils, and kitchen equipment. To his relief, she ate everything on her plates. He told her of his work over the last months, or at least an edited version of it. She spoke to him often about any little thing, a book she had read, a song she had heard, and some less savory stories about the things she'd heard her neighbors doing. The latter caught his attention. The streets were noisy, the faucets often spouted brown water, and the ceiling was constantly creaking. Frankly, the little hole nearly depressed _him_, and he was used to society's undergrounds. Seeing her there was like watching a flower try to thrive in a sidewalk crack.

"How long do you think you will stay here?" he casually asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied. "I don't like it all that much."

"Then why stay?"

"Well." She shrugged. "I guess I've gotten kind of used to it. It's…safe, I guess."

"You tell me your neighbor is a former convict, and yet this is safe?"

"It's hard to explain." But she didn't have to. He suddenly understood. She was still scared, and this was her hideaway.

He remained in the armchair for several nights, rarely sleeping, watching her for hours, pondering the state of affairs. There were points where she had made him happier, angrier, and more depressed than he had been in very many years. In his entire life, really. And he was still unsure as to whether numbness and indifference were preferable to this strange and delicate uncertainty. Philosophizing aside, though, his reasons for staying were really much simpler. In the daytime, she would always kiss him. It was difficult to consider leaving during the night when he had that to look forward to, when he had her company, conversation, and physical touch to anticipate. And, eventually, the nights were even no longer his to spend alone.

She invited him to her bed one evening, guiding him by the hand with a soft _please_ before he took his place in the chair_._ Christine lay with her head on his arm and watched television until her eyes closed. His gaze never went toward the screen; the top of her head was far more fascinating. After lying there awkwardly for about an hour, he put a tentative arm around her, watching as she smiled. He turned off the light and let his cheek rest on her head, never sleeping a wink.

The hours blended together until he didn't even know what day of the week it was, and still he remained, never really making a conscious choice to do so. Whenever he took a walk to clear his head, he always found himself circling back to her apartment. He certainly never crept any closer to Brazil. Another night arrived. She kissed him after the lights were out, on the mask and on his neck. Her hands ran over his shirt, over his chest and sunken abdomen. His breath was unsteady, and his heart was racing. He took one roaming hand and entwined their fingers together. "I do love you," he said.

"I love you, too!"

"I feel like I may die of love."

"You had better not," she said against his neck. "Not unless you really want to send me to an institution." She resumed her gentle kisses, and he held her tightly that night.

And then the next night….

"You are going to stay, right? Oh, don't answer that now. I want you. I want us to be happy tonight. We deserve to be happy. So you can tell me tomorrow, Erik. I promise I've made sure nothing…permanent will happen. You're free to go if you have to. Just be with me tonight."

He warned her of his vast inexperience._ Darling, the women of the world have not exactly flocked to me. _She only replied, with a somewhat distant gleam in her eyes, that it'd been a very long time for her. They lay in silence for several minutes before she turned off the lamp and rolled toward him with a sigh. In the pitch black, he finally allowed her to remove the entire mask, and she ran her smooth hands over the jagged edges of his face. No one had ever touched that awful part of him. The feel of her lips against his bare cheek, against his mouth when they shared kisses, no words could really describe that. Sometimes he worried that he was going to have a heart attack.

She led, unbuttoning his shirt and guiding his hands to her bare hips, stomach, and breasts. The details of that night always remained a euphoric haze, but he recalled burying his face into her shampooed hair and pressing his lips to the base of her throat. Their legs were tangled, and warmth formed in every spot where her skin touched his. Her hands moved down to his waist, urgently digging her fingers into his protruding hips and ribs. And then, without a spoken word, she helped him find a bliss he'd never known existed. He gasped and nearly froze until she guided him toward movement. _So this is why people do what they do…._

The first time was over too quickly, of course. Shame mixed with ecstasy and a dash of disbelief is a rather traumatizing combination. When it was over, as his forehead rested on her shoulder, he heard a little sob escape her throat and was seconds away from jumping up and either yelling or apologizing. She wrapped her arms around him before he even decided and said, "I'm sorry. I'm just so afraid this is all going to go away."

"Sh," he whispered, calming down. "Do not have fear, Christine. Not tonight." He was reassuring both of them now. "There is no reason to be afraid."

Later that night, the second time was somewhat desperate, less gentle and more frantic as they perhaps realized what they'd been missing. Still far too fast, but she'd seemed to guide it that way. And, in the early morning hours, the third was finally slower and sweeter. She felt like heaven. Warmth. Delight. _A reason. _ He clutched her in his arms afterwards, felt her breath on his bare cheek as his entire body tingled. "I'm so happy," she whispered, both arms wrapped around his shoulders. "I'd forgotten…."

"Happy does not really begin to describe it. There isn't a word. And I had nothing to forget. I had nothing..." His voice tapered off as he kissed the top of her head. Perhaps she wanted more reassurance, but, at that moment, he needed a little more time to find his breath and mind. The feel and scent of her surrounded him, blissfully suffocating. An hour later, he whispered into her ear, "I will be back."

She murmured something that he thought was, "Okay."

He arose and dressed, making sure that the mask was secure. _Where did my hat go?_ He stepped outside, his normally smooth steps unsteady and his head a little dizzy. He took a deep breath of fresh, polluted air and walked up the steps, watching other early risers sweep sidewalks and wait for buses. Across the street, an older man in a blue janitor's uniform kissed his plump, grey-haired wife. Three children dropped their backpacks on the sidewalk and began a game of tag. For nearly half an hour, he remained there, observing from the shadows as he finally began to catch his breath.

He still didn't trust humankind. People could be intolerable, ignorant, and petty creatures, and spending more than a minute around most of them would be more than enough time wasted. He was smarter and faster than nearly everyone he met, and he had always known this and used it to his advantage without remorse. His face simply kept people away from him, and he thought he preferred it that way.

But he understood some things a little better now. He had a slightly better understanding as to why Anne gave until she had nothing left. And why Christine had refused to abandon that damned ailing boy for fame and fortune. And why Phillip Chagny had risked incarceration to ease his brother's suffering. And even why despicable Theresa clung to her sick son to avoid abandonment and loneliness. He understood why people tolerated the irritating, irrational and even bad in each other-why they died and lived for each other.

More than anything, though, he understood why he had come back to her.

Because, despite all the misery, the company of others could be paradise. Human beings were a social species. And he had avoided being one of them for so long….

Why would he leave? To become wealthy? To become feared again? Or powerful? Or even respected? _Yes, feared, powerful, respected and ultimately alone._

The door squeaked opened and closed below. This was followed by rapid footsteps up the concrete. He turned to greet her but paused when he saw her expression. Apparently, he'd committed a faux-pas.

"I thought you'd left," she whispered, holding a blue bathrobe tightly around her body. She was barefoot. He couldn't help but admire every inch of her.

"I merely needed air, my dear. Your ventilation is a bit off." There was likely mold in it.

"I thought you'd left. I mean, I know I said you could, but-"

"I told you I would be back. Do I look like someone who is going to leave?" He gestured to his bare head. "I do not even know where my new hat went."

"You look like someone who's been to a lot of places."

"Well, one grows weary of travel after so long. At least traveling alone. No, I'm not leaving. Why ever would I?"

He took her hand and walked back downstairs with her, sensing her presence as he ushered her back inside. Her smile was shy, and she was lovely. The memories of the previous night slowly returned. Magnificent as they were, they also came with slight confusion and the first ember of an unsettling feeling-a possessiveness of this new bliss, a fear that it could go away. _How shall I put you on stage again when millions of other men will begin admiring you? _It would take time to sort everything out. No, he was not quite normal, and he knew there were certain issues that would need to be managed. They were not quite normal. For both their sanity, conversations would be required in time.

"Christine…." She took his hands and anxiously looked up at him. "I adore you. God, how I do. Perhaps it is human weakness, but I cannot let you go. And I see no reason to. I am going to stay, and we will see if we survive each other, won't we?"

"Yes," she whispered. "But I know we'll survive. We always do."

Was it selfish because he partly made his decision out of a desperate need for her in his life? She made him feel human. In some ways, she made him want to live. Of course, he never told her these things directly. Christine didn't need anyone else to save. They had slowly begun to save themselves, and the beloved other would merely be a branch to cling to when the current occasionally moved too fast.

Or was it selfless that he decided to stay instead of continuing onto his next profitable adventure? The challenges of keeping everyone's mind intact would be a thousand times greater than designing a fiber optic security system. He knew this simply by the glints of fear and shadows that occasionally reflected in her eyes and by the odd thoughts that now passed through his head. He knew every day would not be smooth.

Perhaps a bit of both. Perhaps it didn't matter.

On the wall, there hung a calendar with a theme of tropical birds. This month had a colorful Scarlet Macaw. He noticed that the date three days after today was circled in thick, black ink, and it took him only a second to remember why. Exactly a year since the boy's death. He supposed she would want to go to the cemetery soon.

Humming the first song he had written for her, she embraced him, resting her cheek against his chest. She swayed slightly in her own odd little waltz. _Well, Chagny, I hope you were not much of a dancer in your better days. Otherwise, you will have bested me there. _

_He_ merely held her. And that was good enough. They were good enough.

"Erik?" She kept her face hidden against him.

"Yes?"

"I hid your hat."

"_Why?_"

"In case you wanted to leave."

No, every day would not be smooth.


	25. Chapter 25

Here it is. Thanks again to everyone who stuck with it. Feedback is very much appreciated. And check my profile for my future plans.

**Enjoy!**

It was awakening that was the strangest, likely because her dreams transported her to every period of her life. Before opening her eyes, just on the brink of consciousness, she'd often wonder if she'd wake up in the bedroom of her father's house. A simple worry would pass through her mind, like not being able to find a clean and stylish outfit for school. _No, he was dead, and she was grown. _

Or was she lying next to Raoul? Was it time to get up and make him a pot of strong coffee? He loved two cups of it before he went to work…. _No, he was gone, too._

Or would she wake up with a long, lonely day stretched out in front of her? Her heart would plunge for a moment. _But then…no. _ _He'd come back to her._ To confirm this, she would open her eyes, roll over, and rest a hand on Erik's narrow shoulder.

He was a light sleeper; sometimes it seemed like he was only lying there with his eyes closed. When she touched him, his lids would snap open, eyes glowing in the dark. And he would say, in that lovely voice, "Yes? What is wrong, Christine?"

"Nothing," she would reply, inching toward him so that she could feel his thin body pressed against hers. "I'm just glad you're here."

And nothing _was_ wrong.

The guilt was nearly gone. Maybe she hadn't done everything right to save Raoul, but she had tried in the only way a young, over-sheltered girl knew how. She had put all her energy into his wellbeing, had tried to put a smile on his face and hope in his heart, but his depressed state of mind and terrible mother had made it impossible. It had been Raoul's choice to die just as she'd chosen to live. Sometimes she felt resentful, and sometimes she understood.

Sometimes she missed Raoul's simple attitude toward life—the optimism that he had possessed before the accident. He had been good to her the entire time they'd been together. They had loved each other, and she wasn't sure why it hadn't been enough for either of them in the end. It still made her sad to know this. But, especially as Erik reentered her life, she desperately tried to claw back toward the present and future. She had loved Erik for a long time, even before it had been appropriate for her to do so. And, now that he was back, she was determined to never let him go. Day by day, she released her grip on the past.

While the guilt had disappeared, she could still sense that fear and panic in the back of her mind-threatening to rise from her stomach into her chest and up through her throat. She was terrified that another person would be taken from her. Sometimes it even made her act silly, to the point where she would be embarrassed of her attitude later. "Be careful," she would say before Erik went out for a nightly walk. "Please be careful."

He would tilt his head and affectionately say, "Darling, I am going to be the scariest thing out there."

"Yes…but you might get hit by a car…or something."

He kissed the top of her head. "It is rather nice to have someone worry over me. Outside of Anne, you are the first, and I love you for that." But then he would still leave.

She had to force herself not to demand to come along. Erik spent many, many hours with her. Being himself, though, he needed occasional time to, she guessed, deal with his own demons.

The irrational worry wasn't the worst, though. Especially at the beginning, the fear could even make her mean. Jealous and paranoid.

"Where were you?" she'd asked one night. A panic attack was at the back of her throat, choking her. Her head felt cluttered, and she knew her state of mind was not quite right. Still, she hadn't been able to contain herself any longer, the fear and anger rising up and forcing accusations from her lips.

"On a walk," he'd replied. "You know how I enjoy them. Would you like to accompany me tomorrow?"

"You were gone an awfully long time."

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, a sign of irritation. "Merely an hour as usual. What on earth is wrong with you?"

Her upper lip trembled. "You weren't with anyone else, right?"

"Are you completely mad? Me? Erik? With another female? Do you know how ridiculous you sound?"

"Were you?" A more rational voice in the back of her mind told her to shut up. _What is wrong with you, Christine?_

He slowly removed his mask, glaring at her. "What do you think, my dear?" He gestured to his face. His voice took on a nasty and sarcastic edge that would have sent chills up the spines of most people. "Do you think I was with another?"

Unfazed, her mind took another swipe. "Is _that_ the only reason you stay with me?" And then she said something that she still regretted to this day.

Oh, he'd been so angry. Angrier than she'd ever seen him. Towering over her like a dark cloud, he had screamed, "_You had damn better hope I am too ugly to leave as no one else would dare deal with a lunatic like you!" _And she'd felt terrible, dissolving into tears as she wondered what was wrong with her. When he'd returned, she'd pressed kisses all over his unusual face, tears still falling down her cheeks. To her utter dismay, Erik had been near tears as well. "I just want your happiness," he said. "Can you not be happy?"

"It's not your fault," she assured him one hundred times. "It's me. I am happy, but I'm so afraid all the time. I hate being afraid. Afraid and paranoid. I love you, Erik. I love you so much that the thought of losing you makes me crazy." He'd sang and held her until morning arrived. And he'd forgiven her.

From then on, whenever she felt that panicky sensation approaching, she would run to the bathroom and splash her face with ice cold water, attempting to snap herself out of it. Soon, she could calm down with several deep breaths and a countdown from ten. Erik quickly learned to respect these times. _Christine's Crises._

They'd also gotten into an early argument over prescription pills. Even before Erik had shown up in her tattered apartment that night, she'd started taking them sometimes to calm her anxiety, to help with the fear. Erik hadn't been happy upon making the discovery.

"You will use them for escape," he said. "They will dull your senses and take the light from your eyes; it is no wonder your voice is not what you wish it to be."

"You don't understand," she replied. "You aren't always afraid like I am."

"Do not be ridiculous. You think I haven't taken my share of mind-altering substances? You think I don't know?"

They'd fought, and he'd stormed out. Again, she wept and apologized. And that was the end of the pills. She did softly ask what he'd meant regarding his past, not wanting him to keep secrets. He already knew almost everything about her now, even more than Raoul ever had.

"Various opiates," he replied. "Like many a disillusioned youth of eighteen years, I thought they made the world disappear for a bit. And they did. But I would walk through hell before dealing with withdrawal again." He paused and stroked her face with his fingers. "Look to the music, Christine. That is where you will find your joy and peace."

"I have my joy," she replied, tightly taking his hand. "I'm just afraid it'll go away."

But Erik was right. When the music returned, she was better. So much better. It was calming and helped her find focus and that welcome peace, especially when Erik would play the piano for her or join in with his own beautiful voice. The concerts, the traveling, the romance—the world suddenly began to feel right again. She began to find her footing and her place. Yes, this was where she belonged, and now no one would take it from her.

As her star rose higher into the sky, though, she discovered that Erik did have his own fears. It frightened her a bit at first. Erik wasn't afraid of anything, right? But, one evening after a performance, he came up to her with the strangest glint in his eyes.

And he said, "I will not forever remain your nighttime lover."

* * *

It wasn't difficult to get her career back on track. That was probably the easiest part of it all. The world forgot about the Chagny case, and Nadir had seen that her name was cleared. (She changed it back to Christine Daae at his insistence.) Her health improved, and her voice was as lovely as ever with a little training, although perhaps a bit more mature. They had moved out of that god awful hole within three months and began traveling, just as she'd always wanted. Traveling and singing in their own little paradise.

Sometimes it was perfection. Nights of breathtaking music in both a literal and metaphorical sense. Physical intimacy was heaven all by itself, but his mind seemed different as well, his senses more intense. She could make him laugh. She could make him feel sympathy and lust and hope. Instead of finding tranquility to be painfully boring, he thought it calming when shared with her. They were the best days of his life.

And then there were the other times.

There were her strange little tantrums, especially in the beginning. When she actually called him _ugly_ during a fight over practically nothing, he had left for three entire days. Somehow, he managed to get over that one. Besides, he would fall into his own share of blacker moods and snap at her. She'd spend an entire day pouting over it; God, the girl was sensitive. The years had put them both on edge, and only time could begin unwinding their taut threads.

His own monsters popped out from beneath the rocks after they'd been together for about ten months, just as he was rapidly placing her career back into motion. He'd seen her talking to several men after one of her biggest performances. Handsome, wealthy men. They'd come up to her, and she was only being polite. Still…it gave him that feeling that he intensely disliked, a crawling beneath his skin and a buzzing in his mind. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his heart rate increased and his stomach turned. For a moment, he had a vivid vision of killing them in a gruesome way.

There was something that he needed-a stability that he began to ache for. And, finally, he could no longer hold back. If he did, he might lose his mind. "I will not forever remain your nighttime lover."

She looked up from the mirror where she was wiping off her mascara. "What?"

"Unless you wish for a new sort of horror, you will only invite me into your life only if you intend on being faithful. That is not a threat; it is the reality of me. You are _mine _or you are not."

"What do you mean?" she angrily asked, standing upright. "Of course I've been faithful. What are you saying?"

It was going horribly wrong. He knew how men traditionally did this, but he was not one for tradition. "Christine, I want you as he once had you."

"As who once had me?"

"Chagny."

It took her a moment to understand. "You want—"

"You have some time to decide. I make this rule for both our sakes. Because I can swear that you do not want to see the insanity that can come from an ambiguous situation. I already feel it coming upon me."

"I…do understand what you mean," she shakily replied. "And I love you and will always be faithful. It's not that. But, Erik, don't you remember? I'm a terrible wife."

"Nonsense. You were so loyal that I nearly despised you for it."

"But I can't clean house or cook well or anything. And I…I don't think I want children. I don't think I can handle that anytime soon, not when I'm barely learning to take care of myself."

"Can you still sing?"

"Yes." She softly chuckled. "I'm doing that, with your help." Suddenly, there was a bright light in her eyes. "Oh, Erik. I want that back more than ever!"

"Then that's really all I ever will ask."

Her head drooped slightly. "But all I ever remember is failing in that role."

With shaking hands, he removed the mask right in front of her. "Look, Christine. Look at me. Do you think I care if you can vacuum a carpet? Do not be ridiculous. All I want is you. _You._ I have no expectations. I want nothing from you. Except to call you my wife." With a sigh, he turned his back toward her, strongly disliking the desperation that had crept into his voice. Several seconds ticked by.

"All right," she whispered. He heard light footsteps and then felt a hand on his shoulder. "I'll marry you, Erik." He shuddered beneath her fingertips. It was such an odd thing to hear after so many years of solitude.

"Good. That is settled." He turned toward her, and they stood there in a somewhat awkward silence. "I suppose that is not how I was supposed to handle…_that_."

She softly laughed. "Yes. But I wouldn't want you to get on your knees in front of me. I love you standing tall. I always have. And I want to be your wife."

He bought her a simple ring, and it was a simple affair. But the peace of mind it gave him was priceless. As she went to various performances in front of thousands of admirers, that plain gold band settled everything. She could have her confidence back as her voice and smile lit up the rooms around the world. He could keep his sanity.

While she kept the infamous ring in a wooden jewelry box, Christine didn't mention her first husband often. Early on, about a week after she had returned from visiting the boy's grave, there was a night where she sat straight up in bed, eyes wide, and said, "Raoul! I think I left the stove on. What if everything burns up?!" He'd had to push away a burst of resentment and calm her down with a song. Fortunately, those incidents were very rare. Otherwise, sometimes there was a movie or play that she'd mentioned they'd watched together. Chagny was a shade, unthreatening but present. Only there to perhaps say: _Please take care of her. _

And he did take care of her as well as he could, navigating around his own struggles and her odd little quirks.

She would often stand on the balcony of wherever they happened to be visiting for hours. In Las Vegas, after her concert, she watched the famous fountains dance from up high nearly ten times in a row. He admitted his anxiety one day after she asked why he kept an eye on her whenever she stepped outside. "I suppose you do make me nervous. Up there for hours on end."

"Oh, Erik. I don't want to do anything stupid," she said, giving him a precious kiss. "Not at all. I love you, and I'm so happy. I'm happier than I've ever been. I just like to be above everything. It makes me feel safe-like nothing can get me up here. That's all."

First a basement and then balconies-but she always came back inside and told him that she loved him. And she meant it. Life and love returned to her blue eyes, and her smile was entirely genuine. But she would always keep an eye over her shoulder for stray shadows. As he was very familiar with those shadows, perhaps he was best suited as her protector. He didn't think her mind would ever be as disturbed as his had been…and sometimes still was.

They'd been together for almost two years now, singing and traveling, never settling. He had asked if she would prefer to remain in one place for a little while. He wasn't one for domesticity, but he could handle it now and then for her sake. She said she was happy as they were. Considering both their pasts, it was likely good that they remained somewhat mobile.

Their first wedding anniversary arrived. _He_ paused as he prepared to join his wife on the balcony of their suite with a bottle of wine. Her father and former husband stared out from each side of a black two-sided frame that lay in her disorganized suitcase, both smiling up at him. She carried it with her, and he didn't object.

"Well," he said to the two men. "We are both as well as can be expected. I have made my mistakes, but you two certainly have not helped, sheltering her all those years and then abandoning her. What did you honestly think would happen?" He sighed. "I shelter her at times, I suppose. You almost cannot help it what with…." He watched his beauty for a moment; she was staring out into the distance, hair brushing softly against her face in the night breeze. She shivered in her strapless white gown. He urgently wanted to kiss her bare neck and shoulders and take her to bed. "Ah, but we do our best, don't we?" Taking their smiles as confirmations, he left the two ghosts and joined her on the balcony.

"Who were you talking to?" she asked, taking his hand as he came up behind her.

"Myself," he replied, feeling their rings click together. With his free hand, he moved his mask up slightly so that he could feel her soft hair brush against his face.

"Oh. I do that a lot, too." She smiled and leaned back against him. "See how much we have in common?"

And he embraced her and laughed-because it was humorous…and heartwarming…and a little sad…and somewhat true.

Yes, we simply do our best.

_**FIN**_


End file.
